Duty Bound
by Oni Mathier
Summary: Duty. Such a vague term to apply to what we have done and what I can not help, but continue to do. G1 verse.
1. Obligation

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or anything remotely close to it…sadly.

_A/N: First time writing and posting so critique welcome. Flames shall be met with flung poo. :P_

mech/mech – fair warning here…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I watch his optics brighten in surprise then darken in pleasure as his helm tilts back. The move exposes the thick cables of his throat, silver flashing in the dim overhead light. My hand continues to lazily play along the underside of his bumper as I slide the other along the center of a sloped hood. Digits slip into the concave where his armour stops and the softer metal of the neck begins and I press into it.

A soft gasp barely leaves his vocals and I am captivated by those slightly parted lips. Teasing him always becomes an act of self restraint on my part. Hearing him attempt to thwart each reaction that his body creates. Whether it is gritting his denta or clenching the berth I have pressed him against until the metal frame bends under his hands. Every sound that escapes his vocals is because of a lapse of his self control.

A lapse that I create.

It's intoxicating.

And if I stop to think about why I am doing this, his reactions are probably one of the many things that draws me to him time and again. I do my best to ignore the heated pulse of my spark when we are in the same room. Going so far as to avoid unnecessary contact as if the bare graze of his hand will break me. Break _my_ control.

But eventually I can't ignore how I need him and with a casual and inconspicuous press of my palm to the small of his back his optics will meet mine and dim ever so slightly in acknowledgement. A time and location are arranged, as efficient as ever.

A twist of my wrist, buried deep in his underframe pinches a few of the more sensitive wires of a mech's anatomy. I watch his back arch, mouth opening wider this time. Silent. But that doesn't deter me as I claim those sweet lips in a deep kiss. I groan as my glossa pushes past his own, tracing his inner walls. I feel his answering moan where my fingers still are embedded in his throat and that is all of the permission I need.

Removing my hands from their respective nooks I press him back into the berth. The bulk of my body more than enough to claim dominance. The move seems to ignite something in his spark as his glossa suddenly joins mine in excited play. As they twist I take the opportunity to let the hand not supporting our weight find its favorite place on his frame.

The grip, initially rough in my haste and desire, loosens as he whimpers against the mistreatment of that particular appendage. Our lips break with a squeal of metal and I am pleased to hear him pant raggedly. I reward and apologize in one motion, laying a soft kiss to a sensor panel. I allow myself a treat of my own and drag my mouth along the smooth, white curve of his panel delighting in the cool metal tang it leaves in my mouth.

Twin black hands dig under my mag plates in response and I feel warmth envelope one of my audios. That talented mouth raising the heat of my systems, causing my internal fans to kick on. I lean back quickly taking his smaller form with me and drag my fingers along his hips, pulling him towards my frame.

Taking the unspoken command, his smooth thighs straddle my waist, bringing our codpieces together in a slick, electric touch. With both hands now free to roam about I grip each of those enticing door wings at the hinge and grind our fronts together again. Liquid fire assaults my sensor grid from the heat rolling off of his frame and I can tell by the ridged set of his body that overload is fast approaching.

All it takes is one more squeeze of the sensitive wire bundles that connect his sensor panels to that sensuous chassis and he jerks against my grill. Optics tightly shutter as a hoarse cry pushes its way past those normally smooth vocals. The electricity dancing along his armour curls around mine and I cry out in shock as my own overload rushes through my sensory net.

His form sags limply against my front and I barely have the sense to grab onto his upper arm plates before he lists to the side - temporarily offline. I wait for my systems to burn off the remaining excess energy, fingertips idly stroking a pale thigh to where it connects to black. I content myself with this moment, when time seems to slow enough for me to live.

All too soon his form shifts against mine and his helm raises. Cool blue optics meet my own and I feel a small pang of regret when I see nothing but that steadfast loyalty of his reflected back at me. Without a word, he rises from my chest plates in one precise, elegant movement leaving a rapidly cooling patch of plating.

"Remember that we have a telecom with the president and secretary of defense at 1300 tomorrow, Sir."

"Of course Prowl. Thank you for reminding me." I reply. Somehow I am still able to hold a formal tone even with my mask off and foreplates scuffed. Black and white mingling with blue and red.

The tactician stands silhouetted against the open doorway. The hallway light filtering in creates even more contrast to his already black and white frame. The red chevron sitting smartly on his brow simply adds to his noble visage.

"If that will be all, Sir" and with that, the second nods succinctly and is gone.

I can't help the venting of air through my intakes as I relax back onto my berth. The strange relationship - _a term I must use loosely _- that has developed between Prowl and I still leaves me unbalanced at times. I know this happens because of my expectations differing from his, but I have been unsuccessful thus far in redirecting my thoughts and attachments in regards to him. _He_ began these trysts with me some time after our awakening here, on Earth to ease the weight from my processors and frame. _His duty_, he told me.

Duty. Such a vague term to apply to what we have done and what I can not help but continue to do. Each time I call on him he submits without question or challenge. And then I am graced with the spark that he hides from all.

The first time I took him, the moment the dam broke and the flames of passion encompassed him I was caught. Enraptured. And for that I can not stop this even though I have tried.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Like it? Hate it? Want some more of it. Please let me know! Cookies to anyone who guessed the pairing in the first few paragraphs. :)_


	2. Subjugation

**Duty Bound - Part 2**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Rating: M  
Characters: Optimus/Prowl

Disclaimer: I do not own those wonderful Transformers, but oh do I wish it.

_A/N - Special thanks to my first reviewers on this story - MH and Blood Shifter 2. Sorry it took so long to update, but I thought it was a one shot. Apparently not._ ;)

* * *

Silence.

It hangs oppressively as a very real presence in the orange-paneled conference room. My gaze sweeps from one side of the table to the next, taking in my most loyal friends and officers. They are waiting patiently in spite of their obvious thorough exhaustion from the battle earlier this morning. Some sport fresh weld patches, others favor parts of their bodies where damage was inflicted.

I myself am one of those walking wounded. Dealing with both Megatron and Soundwave is enough to leave any mech with at least a few extra dings. The more pliable metal under the front of my grill itches like the pit where Ratchet soldered a torn seam, but I do my best to not let it show.

There is another who is doing an even better job at hiding the pain that he must be in. Inadvertently, my optics wander over the soft lines of a black and white chassis as he debriefs the others on our battle and what went well. _And what didn't_. I can't help, but think ruefully – Prowl's current state being an excellent example of that. The tactician should not be out of the medbay yet, especially if Ratchet's ongoing glare at his person says anything about his condition. Dutifully and with years of practice, he ignores the white and red mech entirely. A small chuckle escapes my vocalizer at the thought of my CMO's homicidal mother hen tendencies and I am suddenly the unwanted subject of his fiery gaze. I attempt to cover the slip with a clearing of my intakes before nodding at Prowl to continue. He raises a single optic ridge, almost delicately before continuing on nonplussed.

I usually have little to worry about in regards to my second during battle. Partially because he is not regularly on the front lines, but mostly because he is more than capable as a warrior with a body as talented and sharp as his processors are. The guilt still hovers over me. Guilt that my men must suffer the same fate over and over again. Guilt that I can't end this pit-damned war with Megatron and give these mechs the peace and respite that they so rightfully deserve. Perhaps Sentinel Prime would have done better? He surely would not have let things progress as they have.

I sigh through my intakes – another one of the little habits that I have picked up from our human friends. Surely Sentinel would never have allowed harm to come to his second. He always kept him close to his side, going so far as to anchor him behind a desk. But had Sentinel seen his second as I have seen Prowl? The strong-willed enforcer completely surrendered to his Prime? I feel a bite of jealousy at the thought of my predecessor eliciting the same reactions from him as I have done.

I watch my tactician's hands elegantly move to emphasize a point in his presentation. Clean and pure white narrowed to slightly slender tips. Tips that make a delicious friction as they slide along my dermal plating. Not quite the hands of an aristocrat, but definitely those of one who has invested time more so in his CPU than in physical upgrades.

I shutter my optics briefly to clear my processors of the memory bit that has just resurfaced. I really need to watch myself lately. My self-constructed protocols seem to be slipping more often than not. I find scenes randomly replaying themselves behind my optics. A soft sigh, the flash of a silver throat arced in ecstasy, his vibrant blue optics alive and piercing my very core with that hidden passion running through them. For a moment, I clench my fists underneath the table and will my reaction away. It takes some effort, but I have been getting more practice than I would perhaps prefer.

Prowl gives his conclusions from the battle – mostly a bulleted list of individual strategies to strengthen our line and ensure that we outlast the Decepticons. There are some murmurs from the other officers in response, but none object or argue the tactician's points. The floor falls to me for the last time this meeting and with a few more closing remarks from myself, the debrief winds down to a close. Thankfully, everyone seems eager to leave. More than likely wanting rest and comfort from their comrades after this long day.

I can still feel the earlier heat that had started to build from my errant thoughts lingering throughout my systems. The excess energy is merely something that I have come to accept as well over time and know that it will need to be taken care of sooner rather than later. Ratchet gives me an unreadable look as he stands before loudly exiting the room, scattering any unfortunate mech from his path that takes too long for his liking. Ironhide shakes his head in amusement and makes to leave as well. A part of me wonders if he plans to follow after the grumbling mess that is the Autobot's Chief Medic to bring him down from his rage and offer the common ground that the two share. It is possible, but as always an unknown with those two thick-headed mechs.

I remain seated, half-heartedly skimming through notes jotted down on my datapad. The solitary break from the others will soothe my processes and quiet my systems before I move on to the next item on today's agenda. I light wisp of air triggers the sensors along my right shoulder and I realize I am not as alone as I thought. A quick glance over said shoulder confirms this. Prowl's impassive face greets me and I find the same parts of my anatomy that I had just gotten to wind down surging happily under his gaze. A servo delicately alights along my opposite shoulder as he leans forward to give me a searching look.

"You need your rest, sir." He murmurs in a low tone. The decibel is pitched just right that my antenna picks up the subtle vibration, allowing it to resonate throughout my frame. I turn my helm slightly to catch his gaze out of the corner of my optics. There is no trace of humor in his expression to indicate anything is amiss. I do however, pick up on what can only be a smirk shining somewhere in the back of his optics.

"I could say the same for you."

A light chuckle is his response and I feel something flutter in my fuel tanks at the sound. "What are you still doing here?"

"You seemed...distracted during our meeting. I wanted to be sure that there was not anything further that you required." His tone is matter of fact and neutral. Had I not already been keyed up, I probably would have thought nothing of his inquiry. But as it was...

"There is, in fact, something that you can definitely be of service to me with," I start slowly.

His lips part to reply, but I don't allow him the chance, quickly intercepting his mouth with my own, now exposed one. I take the opportunity to thrust my glossa into its depths commanding his involvement. From where his hand remained on my shoulder, I feel him tense as if to push or move away.

Having nothing of that, one of my large servos firmly grasps the back of his helm while the other slides up along the seam of his outer thigh to grasp a hip strut and pull him down onto my lap. Another squirm from his new position and a muffled sound, which I am sure is still a protest from the black and white mech. _Well that won't do_, I muse. His glossy chassis slides deliciously against my own as he struggles to unseat himself, unwittingly increasing the heat that is building in me for him.

My left hand travels its own path away from a hip, up to the nose of his alt mode to squeal shrilly as it scrapes across the opaque plastic of a headlight. Prowl breaks the lip lock I have had him under to throw his head back and gasp loudly. Finally getting the encouragement I need, I proceed to fondle his front end while tilting his pearl white helm back further to suck roughly at a fuel line in his neck.

My audios pick up a breathy "Primus" before he groans and throws his head to the side, "Prime...unh...no, please. Not here. *_gasp_* Any one could walk in..."

I chuckle lowly before answering, "Then you had better help me to finish this quickly, soldier."

He groans in frustration and pushes half-heartedly at my mag plates. I once again seal his lips with my own and time the movements of my glossa to the grinding of our cod plates. He now is responsive and meets the demanding press of my mouth with his own - alternating between sucking my glossa into his warm and welcoming mouth and curling the flexible metal of its tip around mine like some kind of dance.

Taking a moment to firmly grasp the black armour of his aft, I lift him off of my lap and position him on the table before proceeding to press into his smaller form with my own bulk. I can see the demonstration of strength has its typical effect on him and those creamy, white thighs are suddenly wrapping themselves tightly around my midsection, increasing our friction two-fold. Two servos firmly grab onto my helm and there is not an inch between our plating to be found.

I have no doubt that I would have actually succeeded in taking him there in that meeting room, in plain view on the table top, but fate was not so kind.

The sound of running pedes coming down the hall and towards the room has the effect of ice being thrown on both of us. Faster than I thought possible, Prowl maneuvers himself from under my bulk and is standing a good five feet away as I just have time to seat myself and close my battle mask.

Another black and white runs in through the half-open door, slightly out of breath and stops at the entryway.

"Prime, we've got a problem." My spark is still racing and my fans are going, but I feel my processor switch to battle mode before I even register that I am standing in response.

"What's wrong, Jazz?"

He takes another deep aspiration before straightening. "Teletran is showing that the perimeter grid on the East end just went down and we have no bots in that area."

I nod, frowning behind my battle mask. This soon after a battle can only mean infiltration. Troubling normally, but even more so since the majority of my mechs are currently in recovery. Speaking of which, "Jazz, why are you out of medical?"

He throws me a lopsided grin and I can only assume that Ratchet will probably be comming me shortly to report a missing/AWOL patient.

"Well, my comms are still down and everyone else was a bit overwhelmed, so I figured I could play 'messenger.'"

Up until this point, Prowl has been stone cold silent, but apparently decides that now is a good time to interject himself. "Jazz, return to medical. I will take over monitoring Teletran for now, Prime. You need your rest."

Both Jazz and I begin protesting our apparent _orders_, but my second will have none of that. He sends his subordinate packing quickly to the medbay and more than likely, Ratchet's warm embrace with subtle threats of paperwork, and before I know it I am at the entrance to my room. Blinking, I realize that Prowl has escorted me as well, probably to ensure that I would not sidetrack or investigate the disturbance myself. With another sigh I throw him a bemused glance, which he returns steadily.

"Rest, sir. I will inform you if there are any further problems." I nod and make to enter my room, but not before making a quick grab at his waist, so that he is pressed to my side.

"We will finish this later, Prowl." I fairly purr into his audio and am rewarded by a full body shiver from him in reply. His optics darken as if in a trance before he blinks, shaking his head, stern façade firmly in place. I am turned and gently pushed into the waiting, empty room like some reprimanded youngling.

_A/N Part Deux - I think Jazz was a wee bit medicated when he snuck out of the medbay, hence him not noticing the...uhm...state of both mechs. Just a thought... ;)_

_Hopefully will have a new chapter up soon...one without the interruption of certain mechs..._


	3. Distraction

**Duty Bound - Part 3**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Rating: M  
Characters: Optimus/Prowl

_Disclaimer: I do not own much, and most certainly not anything related to the Transformers. Go me. |:P_

_Warnings: There be mechxmech relations below. Don't like it? Don't read it!_

_A/N: Thank you to those of you who reviewed/faved/alerted this story. I can not begin to tell you how much I appreciate it. :)_

_

* * *

_

(Optimus' POV)

The loud 'clang' of metal impacting metal echoes loudly throughout the cavernous hallway of the Ark. From where he is pressed against the bulkhead, my second freezes, wide-opticked as he pauses mid-moan to ascertain if the noise garnered any attention. I, for one, do not care if we are heard or not. There are more pressing matters that concern me—like the black and white form that I currently grip tightly as we needily grind into one another. His inactiveness is merely a temporary thing and I can not help, but grin as he is quickly caught up in my actions again. From where we are connected, his heat is absolutely divine.

Two white servos are tightly gripping my front grill as he rides each movement. In this position, I have complete control over him physically and his lack of leverage (which he was slightly put-out about at first) seems to be heightening his arousal more, if anything. Grinning, I give him a glancing bite to a cheek arch that has him immediately turning his helm to capture my lip plates in a wet and needy kiss. Friction from our mouths create sparks as they clash together again and again with the heat from our bodies. The black heels of Prowl's pedes dig into the backs of my thighs as he tries to push himself closer to me, still trying for some kind of control over the situation. I break the assault on his mouth to chuckle warmly before sliding my hands from that slender waist of his to grip both silver thighs tightly, bringing him the last few micrometers to my frame.

"Prime!" He cries, half-keening in his need, optics darkened to a beautiful navy blue.

I place my lip plates next to a rounded audio and rumble lowly, "Tell me what you want, Prowl."

He bites his lower lip in an attempt to halt himself from begging. Even at the very height of passion he tries so desperately to control himself.

"Prowl." I try again, just as low and inviting. "Tell me."

He shakes his helm, optics shuttered tightly in denial. Resisting the urge to shake my own helm in amusement, I slide out and slightly away from his trembling chassis leaving him panting. Bright optics open wide in shock before staring at me in mute appeal to finish what I started. I slide against him, but never close enough to reconnect as he squirms quite dexterously to get what he wants.

Finally, just as I am losing my will to stay pulled away from his delicious form, he pleads to me. "Please, Prime! Please!" The pitch of his voice is higher than normal and it shoots straight to my core in a raging fire.

"Please what, Prowl?" I whisper to him, my lips brushing ever so lightly against the side of his helm.

"End it! For the love of Primus, end it." Doorwings smack loudly against the wall as his movements become more erratic.

Panting, I have no choice (nor want any other), but to thrust back into him with all of the force of the passion that I am feeling at this moment. The back of my helm is roughly grabbed and he seals our mouths together just as overload cascades through his systems, muffling the moan it wrings from deep within his chest. Our uplink feeds all of his sensory information right back at me at a mind-numbing pace and I gladly follow him into my own climax. The wave of energy pulses from my core to the very edges of my frame before releasing. Gritting my denta, I wait for the tremors to subside from my frame before carefully lowering my now quiet second back to the floor, touch lingering long enough to make sure his equilibrium is back.

As we both lean against the wall recovering, he with his back still flush to it and myself leaning heavily against an upraised arm, I watch as piece by piece he regains his control. Waiting for my second's expression to firm up into its usual disinterested look, I am surprised to see a small frown appear instead. Taking in his posture, I notice that his helm is tucked down slightly as well, eyes narrowed and now tucked back doorwings complete the picture. For all intents and purposes he almost seems…_upset_?

"Prowl, is something wrong?"

Almost as if he has forgotten me already, his head snaps up and for a moment his optics are very expressive before a mask of cool indifference replaces the prior expression within a spark beat. If I had blinked, I would have missed it. _Hmm…_

"Not at all, sir." His voice is level and monotone, a sure sign that he is covering something. "I was just thinking about a project that I need to see to, which I have not completed as of yet. If you will excuse me, I will take care of it now."

Slightly stunned, I begin to say "Of course…" but do not get the chance to finish as Prowl has already nodded, turned and left at a brisk pace. What just happened? Watching the receding back of my head tactician I notice with faint amusement the few orangish gold streaks that adorn his back. I would have told him had he, but stayed a few moments longer, but he seemed to eager to be out of my company. That…is not normal behavior for him, particularly around me. In fact, since this unexpected 'arrangement' began all of those vorns ago, I can not recall a time when Prowl did not submit to me without complaint or frown. The only thing that he ever 'disagrees' with me on are some of the various locations that I have taken him (or attempted to).

This new behavior of my second's seems tied to our trysts in some way. Could it be that he regrets our relations, or perhaps he has taken a lover of late? Whatever the case, I need to get to the bottom of this and find out the root cause. I need…Prowl.

_

* * *

_

(Prowl's POV)

The walk to my office takes some time (the part of the Ark that I had previously been in with Optimus is a good distance from the section containing the majority of our offices), but I ensure that I have a calm and steady tread as I make my way there. Finally reaching the plain, steel door, my ID unlocks it automatically and the sanctity of the room welcomes me. I find myself sighing deeply without realizing it. Typically after such vigorous actions I feel more clear-headed and relaxed for the remainder of the day. It also has the unerring ability to help me ease into recharge than I normally do. But that anxiousness that has been randomly occurring in my emotional subroutines is getting more frequent, and now is back full force.

Unsteadily (my frame is still lethargic from overload), I make my way to the black chair perfectly positioned in front of the terminal at my desk. Sinking into its soft cushions and the cutout back, specifically designed for my sensor panels, I let myself simply sit for a moment. My optics carelessly take in the rust orange ceiling panels above as I let my processor work itself out of this emotional loop I have been riding on since leaving Prime. I still can not figure out why I have felt this way around my leader lately. We have always enjoyed a rather open and honest friendship since he first began as Prime and I as his second, stemming from a mutual need and desire to lead the bots under our care and protect Cybertron and its people. Never have I felt uncomfortable or nervous in his presence, merely aggravated at times over his self-inflicted guilt and exasperated over his self-sacrificing ways. Try as I might, he is sometimes so bound and determined to end this war himself.

I suppose that is one of the many qualities that makes him Prime—his care and concern for his people and his courage to stand alone if need be. It is also one of the reasons why he and he alone was chosen by the ancients to be guardian over the Matrix. An honor and privilege bestowed upon so few. Sentinel did not need me emotionally—he was bonded at one time and quiet driven to go at this alone—but in the end he died alone as well. Optimus…he sacrificed so much for us, for the sake of a future that may never come. I saw the pain that it has caused him. In spite of what many may think, I am quite observant about the emotions of other, I simply choose to not 'wear mine on my sleeve' so to speak. After one particularly grueling battle that went on for several orns until we had nearly broken, I came across Prime on one of the upper balconies of the base that overlooked the battle field. He looked nearly as broken and desolate as the now empty battlefield below. Not thinking (I was also quite weary and drawn out), I placed my hand on his arm to offer support and was met by such a naked and lonely expression that my spark faltered.

I led him away from that field of death and to his chambers and did my best to erase that pain from his optics. The next day (I had not lingered after he fell to an exhausted recharge), I worried over what I had done—I have never been one for casual interfacing, let alone with a commanding officer. …But then…I caught sight of the Prime in one of the hallways speaking to a few mechs, looking so much more full of _life_ and _energy_ than I had seen in him during the last four or five vorns and the effect that his attitude was having upon the others… I knew that somehow it had been the right thing to do for my Prime. Thus, our encounters began. The first few times I had let him choose when he came to me, but then I realized that by the time he would seek me out, he was nearing the end of his reserves. So, I watched him more closely and did my best to anticipate when it was that he needed release. I also found that the more open I acted towards our interactions, the less hesitant he was on requesting them until Prime finally became the one to initiate. It was and still is my honor to be able to provide Prime with this temporary escape that somehow has the ability to revitalize him. And so, I will continue for as long as he needs this from me.

* * *

There are a lot of side conversations taking place around the large conference room. The Decepticons have been actively targeting oil rigs off of the coast of the United States, doing their best to pillage energy from the natural resource. This has to stop. The effects their raids have had on the local environment and human population (many who depend on either the oil or the environment surrounding it for their livelihood) is absolutely devastating to take in. It feels so much like what happened on Cybertron so long ago and I can see that many of my fellow officers are thinking along the same lines. We have to put an end to this before Megatron succeeds in bleeding this world dry.

But this is where my greatest strength lies—in being able to logically access any situation and find the most tactically sound solutions to it. I have chosen my top three options for this discussion and so far have found myself at the center of many arguments from both Autobot and human (the U.S. military via secure satellite broadcast). There are too many emotional protocols running rampant in this room. Too much fear and hatred for any of them to make a sound decision yet. I hold in a sigh as I grow tired of the circular thinking I continue to hear and try to redirect. Sending a personal comm. to Optimus who is listening to a 'discussion' that Jazz and Ironhide are having, I see him cock his helm slightly to show he is listening.

"I recommend that we end this meeting for today." I speak lowly and quietly so that only he will hear, "Let tempers cool and give everyone some time to think clearly over our options before making a decision. Reconvene in a day or two at most."

He gives no outward sign that he has heard me, other than his optics focusing briefly upon my open with a barely perceptible nod.

As I have his go-ahead, I interrupt the myriad of voices to declare the meeting adjourned for the time being and suggest that all parties take time to consider their response for when we meet again. There are plenty of grumbles from both sides as neither is ready to let up just yet, but I steadfastly ignore them.

It takes a breem or so until the bots finally settle enough to collect their things and leave. I go to leave as well, processor now full of more variables to consider for our next discussion with the Joint Chiefs, but am stopped by the Prime's voice.

"Prowl. Would you please stay a moment? There is something I need to discuss with you." I sense no mischief, nor displeasure in his tone, so I turn and reenter the room, almost bumping into Jazz as he exits. He lightly brushes off my apology before continuing on his way as I make to where the imposing form of Prime is still seated.

"Yes, sir?"

"Prowl. You have…ah…is there anything wrong?"

My optics advertently shutter once in puzzlement. I had not been expecting him to say anything like that.

"Sir? I do not know that which you speak of." My voice mirrors my confusion.

He rubs a hand over his faceplates in what I recognize to be a slightly unsure gesture of his. When he focuses his attention back on me, it is with optics that seem to pierce straight to through to my spark.

"Is there something troubling you lately? You seem to be acting a little…off around me of late."

Again, I feel that strange twisting in my internals as Prime stares hard into my optics, intently trying to discern or pull something from them. I have no idea what it is that he is expecting me to say, nor why he is suddenly so intent upon it. Reviewing the last few orns of interactions I slowly begin to piece the events together and can now see that I have not been acting as I always have. How did I not recognize this? For once, I am flailing in my logic, caught between deducing what it is that is wrong with me and what my Prime wants from me.

Quite suddenly, I am feeling cornered and the urge to go, to be anywhere, but here in this place is nearly overwhelming. It's suffocating. Willing my processors to slow down from their frantic pace, I direct full energy and focus to my battle computer to decide upon a quick remedy to this situation. Concepts and solutions present themselves neatly, one after another until I select the quickest and most viable option. This takes microseconds to run through internally and thankfully the red and blue Autobot before me is completely unaware as to my struggle at which he is the root cause. I feel that familiar warmth settle in my chassis as I settle myself flush against his much larger frame, letting my hands idly travel up each arm.

"There is nothing to be concerned about, sir." My vocals are low and leave no room for misinterpretation. I can tell that the tone has temporarily side-tracked my leader and I take full advantage of that fact. It leaves me with such a heady rush when I allow myself to acknowledge it—being able to captivate such a powerful being simply with words. My words. My voice. My body. All of which gladly belong to him. I can feel the steel chords under his frame tense in anticipation and I am glad to reward him for that, sliding each servo lightly up until I can grasp the back of his neck. Slowly, I pull him down to my level as I reach up to delicately place a kiss on his battle mask—first one side, then the other. The sound of gears whirring gives me enough of a warning to pull back as his mask parts, revealing slightly flushed faceplates and an eagerly panting mouth. Pausing to relish this time, this last step before falling off the precipice, I finally complete my action and connect firmly with grey lip plates.

The reaction in me towards him is instantaneous as my field flares, energy travelling through my lines to the lower regions of my body. Heat suffusing in my interface array, making me practically climb on my Prime to more thoroughly ravish his mouth. His glossa pulses against my own, pushing and turning before pulling away slightly to suck my lower lip plate into his own. Optics dimming, I can not stop the long moan that escapes my open mouth as I allow my helm to fall back. I feel wet warmth as he tastes the apex of my throat and continues further up along to the side of my jaw. By now, I have wrapped my legs tightly around his hips to ensure his full and unadulterated attention. His body practically thrums against mine and I have a moment of satisfaction as I know that I have successfully derailed his earlier inquisition, before he is leaning back onto the conference table and I have no choice, but to follow. And follow I eagerly do. A list of the rules and regulations that our inappropriate conduct is breaking flickers quickly through my mind and I pay it no heed. My previous refusal seems like a distant and disconnected memory. I do not know why I had been so adamant to not be in this position last week. If this is what it takes to have his attention focused solely on me, I can not hesitate.

Large hands are suddenly cupping me drawing my form down and I realize that I was drifting off in my thoughts as I often do. Looking down, Prime's blue optics twinkle back at me and my ventilations hitch slightly at the fond smile that is being directed at me. Where did that come from?

"I hope that I am not boring you, Prowl." He rumbles deeply. I can feel the vibrations travel through the front of my alt mode and I can not help, but sink into him, strutless.

Once again, our mouths meet and the heat from his ventilations mixes with mine somewhere in the middle, but we pay it no heed. Those same massive servos are quite suddenly removed from my aft and easily wrap around my waist as I am lifted away for a moment. Before I can make sense of what he is doing, we roll and I find myself in the very familiar position of being pinned by him. Aspirations increase dramatically and I can feel my spark pulsing hot like a mini red supergiant. A needy keen leaves me as Prime's mouth trails down my waist and starts lapping against my front access panel. I try to stay coherent enough to worry about the volume of my cries—of the grunts and moans resulting from our actions. I may not mind the location, but I most definitely do not desire an audience. There is no real shame in what we do, simply that intimacy should be intimate. Half-consciously, my body undulates towards him again and again, building on the charge that is rising within me.

Firmly, my hips are grasped and pinned in place resulting in a frustrated moan from me. I sense more than feel his grin against my cod piece before he rises, proceeding to mount me. The heat from his panel is scorching and I cry out again as it is ground thoroughly into my own. I curl up, trying to reach his mouth, his mag plates…just…_some_ part of him to _touch_ and reconnect with. He does not leave me searching for long as a warm mouth encloses my own gasping one, sharing rough respirations. Long, blue digits glide from my waist down, down and gently caress my frontal access. They swirl lightly, teasingly, before guiding the panel open. There is a brief moment where cool air assaults my overheated array before he's pressing against me—into me—and I am overwhelmed by the sudden outpouring of data coming from his jack-in.

A low, deep-throated moan sounds from above me and I online my optics to gaze at the sight of my Prime caught in rapture. This, above all else, convinces me that this—what we do—is right. Seeing all of his walls and burdens dropped and him fully alive in the moment, even for a moment makes everything worth it. We can not last too much longer like this, the frantic pace our grinding has taken is almost violent in its lack of restraint and I relish his weight nearly crushing me in this embrace. Prime shifts ever so slightly and the new angle is too much for me to stop the overload that I have barely held at bay until now. My core surges in its own electrical fire and I am encompassed in a white glow, frame tensing to its absolute most before releasing. For a moment everything is quiet as small aftersparks of electricity dance and tingle along junctures in my chassis. The warm and heavy mech lying on top is motionless and I can only assume that he did not last much longer after me. His scent combined with the smell of burnt ozone and hot fluid that lingers around us is heavenly.

Finally stirring, he carefully disengages from me and manages to roll somewhat sloppily onto his back plates. Still buzzing, I make as if to get up. I need to get up. Need to return to my work and my station as I always do, but something falters within my lines of code. Gazing at that relaxed chassis, there is the strange urge within me to do something that I have never done before. Perhaps I am just suffering from the after effects of a long week with little recharge, followed by a massive overload, but for a moment I turn and curl into his side—grill pressed to my cheek arch—and just be.

_

* * *

_

A/N – …and I swear to Primus or whatever god that there actually IS a plot in here somewhere amongst the smut… O_O ...I need a stiff drink after this chapter.

_Love/Hate? Please let me know. It's how I know if I am totally crazy writing this or not._


	4. Consternation

**Duty Bound - Part 4**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: JazzxSurprise Guest, minor OptimusxProwl (_WTF?_)

Rating: M

Warnings: MechxMech…aka no like—no read.

Disclaimer: I do not own much, and most certainly not anything related to the Transformers. Nor do I make ANY profit from writing this. Go me.

_A/N: SO sorry for taking so long to update this. The plot bunny was being allusive for awhile there. Hopefully the next couple of chapters will make it worth the wait. ^_^_

_

* * *

_

(Jazz's POV)

For a breem, all I could do was stand there like a fool in the middle of the main hallway and gape. I'm quite sure a bug or two flew through my slack jaws while I wasn't paying attention. Ratchet will have my head for that later during my monthly physical, I'm sure.

I hadn't the slightest clue what exactly I was going to walk into when I went searching for Prowl to get his thoughts on the specs for an upcoming mission for my team. After he was not in either the Bridge or his office, process of elimination had led me to our last meeting room. Finding the two of them clinging tightly to each other, energy crackling over their frames as they overloaded was DEFINITELY not something I had planned on seeing.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm no prude. I also knew that there was something up between the two of them. I am the head of the black ops area of the Autobots for a slagging good reason and it has nothing to do with my very charming personality. Although, I can't say that it hasn't helped me get my way in the past on more than one occasion.

I just didn't realize how close they are. It was an odd sort of thing to see my straight-laced and relationship-avoiding friend curl up so contently next to Prime after they finally finished twitching and groaning. I've known Prowl practically since his first day at the Academy and we've been close for nearly as long. During all of those vorns of knowing him, I have seen Prowl in an intimate relationship with a grand total of two other bots. Both were back on Cybertron and both were before the war fully broke out. He ended each relationship and neither of them on mutual terms.

Don't know why he hasn't been with many more bots. It's not like the mech doesn't have a lot of good qualities to him. Slag, he puts up with my escapades with little more than a raised optic ridge. Spark of a saint that one has.

Not that it's my place to pry. He likes to keep his personal life private and I can respect that. I just can't believe that either of them would think that having this kind of an affair would be a good thing in the long run.

I barely have enough time to offline my visor, systems cycling to damn well near silent, before I am melting into the shadows. Prowl breezes by my position as he leaves, composed and completely unaware of my presence. I have to choke back a laugh as I can't help, but notice that his gait is slightly off kilter. Prime must have surged his circuits good. I'll have to give him a bit of needling about that, along with some chastising about his complete obliviousness. A mech of his position needs to be much more aware of the world around him at all times. The last thing the Autobots need is for both their second and first in command to be assassinated—especially because of fuzzy, post-coital bliss.

Frell. It's the last thing I want as well—I'm next in line, believe it or not. No way in the Pit that I am inheriting the Matrix and running the entire fragging Autobot army.

Watching the cool white plating of my best friend's retreating back I can't help, but wonder why he of all mechs would get involved with Prime. Prowl is a pretty rule-abiding mech (not that there's any surprise there) and this kind of behavior is completely out of character for him. There are certain policies and protocols in place—most which he either helped to draft or at the very least has enforced. The biggest one being fraternization between a ranking officer and his subordinate.

Granted, it's hard to apply that rule nowadays when there are so few of us left and our little rag tag crew is marooned here on Earth. I'm all for bending and creatively reinterpreting the rules, but there is one thing that is certain—Prowl is not.

I know first-hand how difficult it is to be in that kind of position too. I was once just a lower-ranking saboteur following orders when my superior took an interest in me. He was a fine-looking thing and a kindred spirit. It was easy for me to fall for him—too easy now that I think back on it. I should have never let it get as far as it did. Moral of the story is don't 'face with the bot who gives you orders. It never ends well. It's difficult not to favor someone that you genuinely care for and the resulting favoritism ends up affecting more than just yourself.

There is a shuffle and a long, metallic scrape as I imagine Prime rights himself and subsequently, the chair that they knocked over. I take it as my cue to leave the area. It's best to try tackling this enigma in a much less conspicuous area.

Plus, I still need Prowl's sign-off on my team's next mission. Well, frag.

* * *

(_Later that day)_

Data scrolls monotonously from top to bottom against a dull green background. The screen only holds a small portion of my processes as I'm devoting the majority of them to reviewing everything that I thought that I knew about my CO and XO.

There is one truth that I am almost one hundred percent certain of—this has got to have been going on since before we crash-landed on Earth. There is no way that they can have such a casual, yet intimate relationship with each other if they are brand new to this.

Now, I'm the kind of mech who really doesn't like to focus upon anything more than the present. I can be honest with myself about that. The past—it already happened. The future—who knows what can happen? So, why bother worrying about those things that I have little to no control over? I'd rather focus on the task at hand and be in the here and now.

I guess it should come as no surprise that my current reflection into the past has been…uh…illuminating to say the various least. I seriously feel like a Class A boron compressor. I mean, come on, those two couldn't have been more obvious about it if Prime didn't just lay out good ol' Prowl out on the table in the middle of a staff meeting and ravage him in front of everybody.

I feel marginally better that I am not the only one in the dark. It seems like the rest of the Ark is just as clueless. Not that it makes me feel any better for overlooking the signs.

Their time schedules overlapped at the strangest of times. Sometimes late at night, while others during the wee hours of the morning when the least number of staff were on duty. Then there were times when Prowl, punctual-to-the-nanosecond-Prowl, was late for meetings or his duty rotation. There were the moments that I had always felt like I was intruding on something (an argument or what not) as one or the other always left the room shortly thereafter, systems running hot from what I assumed was some disagreement.

The question is whether I need to stick my cute, little nose plate into their business or just continue to beg ignorance. I mean, it's not like their 'relations' have caused any harm to date (far as I know). Then again, I can't help, but worry about the why. Prowler is just not the type to simply submit to another mech and give his spark, even to a Prime. Sentinel tried, but failed miserably. It was pretty fragging fantastic to witness too. Maybe Optimus has figured out some way to break through all of Prowl's defenses?

A lovely throb starts in my CPU at the thought of that. I've always felt this need to protect Prowler. Not that he actually needs the protection or anything. There is just something about the bot that throws all of my protective tendencies into overdrive, if only to ensure that the mech who I see as my brother is happy in some small way. Not that I'd ever tell the poor bot that—he'd probably fry a few circuits. As strong willed and intelligent as Prowl is, he is very reserved about any kind of relationship—even around me. Then of course, there is the more cynical and analytical (realist) part of me that can't help, but wonder if Prime is taking advantage of his position.

Still. I need to make sure Prowl is okay with _whatever_ is going on. Just how to broach the subject with him…?

Strong, jet black arms encircle my shoulders, interrupting my mulling and I smirk to myself before tilting my helm back to accept the hungry mouth that is hovering above mine. Our lip plates lock and lazily we swirl our glossae around each other's until we're damn well near breathless. Pulling back slightly, I smile at the impish faceplates that greet me.

"Hey Sides. How's it crankin'?" I quip.

A light chuckle is his response as he casually curls my upper body closer to his chest plates. I get this lovely tingling sensation in my right audio horn as he delicately nuzzles it—setting off the hypersensitive sensor net.

"You know that ya shouldn't be here, right?" I can't help, but ask even as I stretch to wrap my forearms around his neck.

"Yeah, I know. Couldn't help it." I can feel the rumble of his engine as he mouths the sharp line of my vents, tongue dragging along each ridged opening. The throttle in my chest starts its own reverberation at the attention.

Gasping slightly, I respond "Yer spoiled, ya know that? I'm off shift in a few more breems, can't you wait 'till then?"

My world spins suddenly as my chair is sharply turned so that I can accept a lap full of Lamborghini.

"Yeah, I know that too. I'm just so BORED." He slumps on top of me dramatically as if his imaginary strings have been cut, nearly smothering me and it gets the laugh that I knew he was looking for. I can't help it, okay? The mech just always manages to brighten my day and distract me as well. Not that it takes much.

I guess I can put those two bots on the back burner for now. I need to do a little more recon before I can even bother confronting either of them. Don't want to go about this half-cocked or anything.

On the plus side, there is this deliciously glossy chestplate gleaming in front of my faceplates that is just begging for my undivided attention.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for all things shiny.

I oblige the grinning mech in my lap with another deep kiss, dragging my glossa slowly across the roof of his mouth. My hands join the action as well, and I happily drag each servo down the broad expanse that is Sides' backplates. Something about having a large, well-built mech all to myself that just revs my engine hard.

The feeling is definitely mutual as I feel a set of broad digits running insistently along my waist, digging almost roughly underneath armor plating to the supple 'flesh' of my protoform. I gasp loudly as Sideswipe drags the tip of his thumb from inner hip to just above my interface array. The hot line left in its wake burns almost painfully with the sharply rising desire it creates.

Screw this. My chronometer says that my shift is over now and with my replacement being currently otherwise occupied with yours truly, I have no problem _indulging_ a bit. Remotely, I lock down the room (a perk of being me) before devoting my full attention to the task at hand. Sides give a triumphant little crow as he realizes that he has turned me over to "the dark side" as he so likes to call it.

Glancing up, I can tell from his face plates and the more jerky movements of his actions that he's already worked up. Optics darkened to a nice indigo, I take a good, firm grip on his left audio horn and pull his helm back—all the better to taste him with. The thick, rubbery cables of his throat stand out strongly, even in the dim light of the control room. They are one of my favorite parts on a mech. Slowly, I drag the tip of my glossa up one of the main lines tasting the smoky flavor the flexible metal leaves along the sensors lining my mouth.

His reaction is too grab my hip struts roughly before pulling our frames together as flush as they can be made. His hardware is already online and deliciously warm against my own. Eager young mech that he always is, his panels are already open and waiting for me.

A little age and experience is on my side and I use it fully to skillfully delve my field into his erratically flaring one. Our energies mingle and curl, imitating Sides' hand under my grill. Knuckle-plates worn by routinely pounding Cons inadvertently brush against a group of major muscle cording near my core. The sensation is almost too rough, but damn if it doesn't make my chassis involuntarily jerk and I choke back a harsh cry as the sensation doubles from where he's jacked into me.

Neither of us are choosy about who is on which end. We just roll with whoever is feeling whatever roll at the time. Suits me just fine. Damn…I just rhymed.

A low growl is my only warning before Sides decides he's had enough play and takes charge.

My moan is not for show (even though I know how much Siders enjoys it) as I find myself lifted from our previous position and pressed snuggly to the control room's closed door. _Primus_. He grinds the smooth lines of his frame forcibly into my own curvier one. I can do nothing more than grasp feebly at the boxy corners of his shoulders. Especially after he takes those big hands and grasps each of my thighs, spreading my legs wide open almost obscenely.

Makes me glad that we're on this end of the cameras. Red would have a field day if he knew what we were doing inside his sanctuary.

Horned black helm pressed intimately to my own matching one, I can feel each gasp that he vents, comingling with my own in response to his deep thrusts. Electrical energy is transferred quickly from him to me and back again. The sharp jolt is (pardon the pun) electrifying. I let my helm fall back and clang against the thick, metal door behind me and just _enjoy_ his thick jack gliding into my port. Frag, but the mech is _good_.

"_Unh_…Jazz." Siders gasps out, I angle my visor enough to take in his nearly offline optics, deepened to a lovely sapphire that looks quite dashing with that paint job of his. I don't care what bots say, I think Sides is just as fine specimen of mech as his brother—more so in some regards.

Both of us are panting hard, vents whirling madly, mouths hanging open to try cooling our rapidly overheating frames. It's not working, but at the time I could give a flying turbohawk less. I'm more drawn to that hot mouth hovering mere inches from my own. No sense wasting a good thing, I seal his silver lip plates with my own.

A moan echoes deeply from within his chest plates and a nearly bite off that blasted silver tongue of his when his thick jack thrusts so fragging deep that I swear I can feel it straight through my spark. The connection that has been teased at the last breem suddenly flares to life when jack connects solidly with the socket at the back of my port, just as Primus intended.

Our high cries run an interesting counterpoint to the rhythmic, dull thumping against the wall before cutting out sharply at the end. Breathlessly, we both slide down the burnt orange metal before slumping together in a pile on the floor like a couple of empty shells.

I drift for a while, half in Sides' lap with his helm resting comfortably on my hood. From where his frame is nestled into mine my sensitive system can feel the buzz and hum of his spark. I am not the most sentimental type (believe it or not), but just feeling Sides' spark alive and brilliant so near my own just…soothes me.

"_Primus_, Jazzzzzzzzz—st" Sides breathes out at last, vocalizer still crackling and hissing static as his system resets itself.

Chuckling lowly, I dip my head down to press a kiss to a nearby audio horn. I get a little static zap for the gesture.

My spark nearly leaps out of its casing when the Security Room's buzzer sounds quite suddenly in our little space. Sideswipe sits up a little too fast and overbalances, taking me with him. Sprawled in a most-undignified way across his long and lanky legs I open my mouth to make a smart comment, but never get the chance to voice it.

"Jazz, open the door. I know you are in there." Says a very firm and even-toned voice. Speak of the devil.

Sideswipe's optics widen to the point where the lenses look like they will pop out at any second. Yeah. I might be in here, but I doubt that Prowl expects Sides to be cohabiting the space with me. Considering that he just came off brig time, I'm fairly certain that my hellion doesn't want to get caught being naughty.

Using the perky black aft underneath me to push off, I regain my pedes and call back to the mech not-so-patiently waiting outside. At the same time I tuck in all pertinent bits and pieces into their respective places, checking my armor for anything amiss.

"One sec', Prowler. I got to sign off the system." A sharp jerk and Sides is vertical. I quickly shove him into the Director's chair and jab a black digit at the bank of monitors in emphasis. There's no way that I can hide a full grown, flaming red Lamborghini in this tiny little room. Prowl can be a little dense at times, but he's not oblivious.

"_Jazz_…" My best friend's tone has a wee bit of a warning attached to it now. Oops. Shouldn't have kept the mech waiting.

I release _my_ locks on the door and it slides near-soundlessly to the right. The black and white, winged figure awaiting me on the other side, arms crossed and frown firmly fixed on his face plates is somewhat less than amused.

"Hey mech, what's the good word?" When all else fails, chipper is always a good place to start with the tactician.

He doesn't even glance at my grin as he steps by me and fully enters the Security Room. There is a moment of hesitation as I know he processes the mech smiling cheerfully at him from the Director's chair. Sides gives our XO a little half-ass wave to try smoothing things over. Yeah right.

Whatever he's thinking, all it takes is the icy glare that I get over a pearl-white shoulder plate and I know we are both so _screwed_.

Looks like I am going to have to postpone my investigation of good ol' Prowler and Prime for the moment. I foresee lovely mess hall cleaning duties in my immediate future.

* * *

_A/N – K…so I really did not mean to make this a mostly Jazz chapter, but I wanted to get his viewpoint on things. Hopefully this is not too OOC for him, or Sides for that matter. The good news is that the next chapter is already in the works and will be returning to our original POV (aka – Optimus)._

_Anywho, love this? Hate this? Not quite sure? Please let me know. Feedback helps this writer grow big and strong. :D_

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/faved/alerted this story up until now. I really REALLY do appreciate it. _


	5. Implication

**Duty Bound - Part 5**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: OptimusxProwl

Rating: M

Warnings: Minor smutting, violence of the battlefield type and a slightly thickening plot.

Disclaimer: I do not own Prowl or Optimus, other than in toy form and that makes me sad.

_A/N: Just a quick note, then on to the story. Thank you so SO much to everyone who reviewed/fav'd/alert'd and all of that jazz. I apologize (am hanging my head in shame) for how long this next chapter has taken to post it seems to have become a rather feisty thing to wrangle into place. Anywho, I hope that you enjoy this next part!_

_

* * *

_

(_Optimus' POV_)

Apparently within the last couple of weeks I have managed to acquire an additional shadow in my spare time. Now, I am not as observant as some of the bots who are under my command, but I do take note when a certain saboteur of mine inserts himself with increasing frequency into my daily schedule.

My second seems to have noticed the odd behavior as well if the increasingly severe look that he fixes upon Jazz whenever my third enters the room is anything to go by. Honestly, I do not know what to think, but the small interruptions though inconspicuous at first, have become more aggravating as the days continue on. I have been unable to capture my tactician alone of late and that creates a whole different kind of frustration in and of itself for the both of us.

For now, I am relegated to watching those curved sensor panels and the narrow tilt of his waist from afar, all the while craving just the slightest contact or acknowledgment by him. I fear that if this goes on much longer, I may not be able to control myself if we happen to even brush against each other accidentally.

Again, though the trouble does not lie with Prowl, but with his counterpart. The interference is highly suspect, occurring mostly when I finally find myself alone with the Datsun in a semi-private setting such as my office or a conference room. Somehow, Jazz just _happens_ to have a report finished for Prowl to review, or an adjustment to an upcoming mission plan that he can not wait until a later time or date for me to see.

I can not stop a wince as Prowl slams his small stack of datapads onto the table as he stands up, all the while directing a very dark glare at the Porsche before picking up all of his essentials and leaving the room. Jazz's visored gaze follows him and I find my own doing the same, half-consciously following the strong, vertical lines of his back to where they stop at a black aft. Realizing where my optics (as well as my thoughts) have wandered I jerk up guiltily and am met with a piercing look by my head of Special Ops. Without allowing an external reaction, I straighten, coolant running through my lines at the knowledge that seems reflected in such an expressionless turquoise visor.

I clear my intakes once before asking the remaining bot what he needed to see me about. In the next instant, Jazz is relaxed and nonchalant—completely the opposite of how he had been a microsecond ago. He weaves some grand story about needing my approval on an idea of his to cross-train the members of his team in the different roles that are needed within his unit. I nod at the appropriate parts and listen with both audios, but I can still see it for the cover that it is. The saboteur is not fooling me. He somehow knows about us. The question is why does he feel the need to get involved?

* * *

My impromptu meeting with Jazz goes on for far longer than I think either of us had expected. Given how small his core team is now, the proposal that my third has presented me with unexpectedly has great merit. It also opens the door to trying to matrix-out rank and file in other areas as well in order to 'grow' our knowledge-base more. As isolated as we are here on Earth, more often than not there are holes in our line, whether it be from casualties of battle or missions elsewhere on the planet. Now that my mechs are at least settled and life has become somewhat routine (relatively speaking) in our marooning on this distant world, it seems the right time to challenge them in new ways.

Shaking my helm absently in a feeble gesture intended to clear my straying thoughts, I tiredly punch in the codes for my quarters. At this point, I am quite exhausted from the last few days of duty and I am ashamed to admit that I have to enter my code more than once until I get the right combination inputted. I wonder what Red Alert will think in the morning when he reviews the security logs and finds repeated entries for my room by none other than my call sign. Being a Prime does not always have its perks. It leaves me under very high scrutiny from every mech under my command and that pressure has disappointedly been getting to me of late. I endeavor as best as I can to not let the strain show to those who serve so closely under me, but there are times when it is unavoidable.

Again, I could really go for a surge or two with my tactician.

Crossing the threshold into the sanctuary of my room, I take in the spartan living space—seeing that nothing is out of place—before heading straight for the ante room where my recharge berth lies. Normally a good scrub, hot rinse and a wax would be on the agenda at the end of a long night, but at this point I am stubbornly beyond caring.

I get no further than the foot of my berth before my sensors have me on high alert—the energy field of another mech too close in proximity to give me time to defend myself. Turning quickly, I manage to catch sight of a smoldering pair of ice blue optics in the dark before I am roughly pushed backwards onto the awaiting berth. White glitters in patches, reflecting the light from the other room and I can just make out a pearl-white helm in all of its ghostly glory and the matching pair of sensor panels flared behind the figure before I am being ravished. Thoroughly.

The tactician is practically whining in need and the sounds he is making does a myriad of terrible, wonderful things to my insides. He has already climbed half on top of me, the warm, white metal of his thighs pressing tightly to the outside of my own. A hard scrape of friction between our cod pieces that I know will leave paint not of our own on both of us has me tightly gripping the sharp edges of his slender hip plates. I repeat the accidental gesture and he moans wantonly above me—hands loosely grabbing onto the rapidly warming red metal of my shoulders.

For once my partner is taking on the more dominant role, eager and near frantic in his movements. This entire encounter is a rarity from Prowl. That I am getting to experience him like this is a real treat. Almost always I initiate the encounters between us. My tactician is many things, but being one of spontaneity is not one of his strong suits. Getting a little tired of the distance separating us from where he sits perched upon my lap, I reach up and hook my hand behind his neck. There is no resistance as I pull him down to claim that perfect little mouth with my own. Another moan reverberates up from the cords of his throat, followed by a couple of smaller, muffled squeaks.

Pushing my glossa from one side of his mouth to the other and back again, he practically vibrates in reaction. Now that I have his helm where I want it, I let go of my grip on his neck, sliding one large, blue servo down his protruding chest plate and enjoying the silken feel of a perfectly waxed chassis against the tiny sensor points that line each fingertip. His movements seem less in control than usual, almost jerky and leaning towards frenetic. Apparently I am not the only one who has been missing this…_thing_ between us. Strangely enough, it provides a different kind of warmth inside the very core of my being knowing that Prowl desires me like this. That it truly is not a one way street.

The black and white mech breaks our lengthy kiss to pull back slightly and take in my faceplates. The deeper blue of my optics barely provides much illumination across his face, but that does not stop me from drinking in the sight of him. There are many who support the claim (though not in his presence) that Sunstreaker is the most handsomely built of all the mechs in my company. With no small amount of subjectivity I would have to disagree completely. Staring at the energon-flushed plating of the mech before me, all I can seem to focus on is how perfectly symmetrical his features are, from the crest of his chevron, to the slightly jutting chin. Prowl alone knows this kind of perfection and no other.

That quiet calm between us is fleeting as patience is noticeably absent from both sides at the moment. I know only the need to connect with him. There will be time for taking things more slowly and appreciating each other's frames more thoroughly _later_.

The red chevron on his forehelm is barely visible as his head is tilted so far back that his neck seems much longer than is physically possible. Both of those slender, white servos are trembling from where they are braced against my shoulder plating as each movement rocks his chassis back. Each subtle vibration carries through my field like a unique current before evaporating and making room for the next.

With energy already crackling over my frame and through my interface systems, I lift his smaller frame just enough to clear my grill before bringing him back down flush against me. Prowl practically screams as the connection that we normally take some time to sync up and get right hits home on the first try. Now plugged into his tight port, our fields smooth out into a more predictable rhythm, extending and contracting around and within each other in tune with our somewhat hurried motions. Between my labored pants and Prowl's keening whines the realization hits me that there is a high amount of excess energy built up in my systems already. The charge between us seems to have managed to reach its crescendo and it could only have been a few minutes that I have had my second seated in my lap.

But there is no stopping us now. Like an uncontrolled tsunami, it only takes a few more sharp thrusts into his smaller form before my systems are redlining, ventilation working overtime to manage the sudden rise in temperature of both internals and protoform. A lengthy, low groan reverberates from deep within my chest plates, echoing strongly through the room as I bask in the sheer, unadulterated pleasure suffusing my frame from my release.

A goodly amount of charge still remains even after my body has attempted to cycle out the excess. This leaves little choice for the overload-fused energy to do anything less than, but to cycle into the frame that still carries an open connection to me. Prowl has yet to overload, but the whining of his fans and the waves of heat lapping against where we are pressed together proves that he lies just on the precipice. I allow a small smirk as I thrust one more time into that hot port while shunting whatever charge I have left through our uplink.

The rush of pure energy is a lot for my tactician to both take in and disperse throughout his frame simultaneously. The only physical act left to the sinewy black and white form connected so intimately to me is for him to simply ride out each wave, writhing in ecstasy. His undulating body is the last sight to burn itself into my optics before I blissfully fall into oblivion.

* * *

A rush of cool air brushing across my lip plates pulls me from the comforting arms of recharge. Optics onlining blearily, I have just a moment to adjust their focus and catch the retreating sensor panels of my second before the door from my berthroom slides near soundlessly shut, once again wrapping me in darkness.

A low groan issues from my vocalizer as I roll my suddenly very heavy frame so that I can lie properly flat upon my back. Staring blankly at the dark space above me, I can not help, but feel a weight settle in place above and around my spark. Absently, I rub a servo along the closed edge of my chest plating as I contemplate the strange feeling.

I do not know why I expected a different outcome from what has always been the modus operandi between Prowl and I. Save for the unexpected events of our previous tryst in the conference room, my second never lingers—he merely waits for me to cycle down from our shared bliss before exiting the area. His claim has always been that it is to avoid detection or misconstrued perceptions about our work relationship by casual observers. Now, though… It is so strange that one small change in the dynamic that I have come to accept and in fact eagerly anticipate at times has introduced a desire both new and old to me, and yet so incredibly raw.

I already miss his presence. Logically (and yes, I laugh at that term and the image of him it automatically conjures up) I realize that it has only been moments since he has left and yet…I would have had him stay here by my side a little longer. 'Clingy' is not a term that I would normally use to describe my person, but lately I have found myself simply _missing_ my second's presence—both in my berth and by my side.

During my tenure as Prime, I have endeavored to stay unattached in spite of the natural desires of my spark to find a mate. The sheer magnitude of responsibility that is attached to the position of being Primus-chosen is such that the last thing that I would ever want to do is drag someone dear to me into this mess. How could it possibly be fair for a lover or, Primus-forbid, bond mate to always come second in my actions even though they are first in my spark? Cybertron and its people are who I serve and by some miracle I have been able to continue at it alone all of these vorns. Well, perhaps not completely alone. I am no fool. His mere person brings a stillness to my spark that otherwise would allude me.

Some selfish (and partially masochistic) part of me wonders if he has ever thought of me as anything more than a duty. One day I may have the ball bearings to ask, but until then I am only left with the nagging doubt in my processors.

* * *

(…_the next day…)_

The sharp _twang twang_ of laser fire fills the air around me—a symphony of staccato beats intermittently interrupted here and there by a grunt or curse as mechs battle each other fiercely on all sides. A hazy mixture of dust and smoke particles obscure the combatants making it difficult to decipher friend from foe.

Megatron and his Decepticons have been going at it with my mechs for nearly the entire day and judging by the Sun's waning light they have no qualms about this skirmish continuing on into the night. We need to end this and soon. Our energon reserves will not last us through another day's worth of fighting. I need to regroup my bots and get them refueled, repaired and rested, if only for a short time. There has been no option of rotating new bots into the mix and every available Autobot is already in the thick of things.

To my side, Jazz lets loose a few more colorful human phrases through gritted denta as he dodges Soundwave's sonic blast all the while artfully evading the less than graceful swings aimed at him by Blitzwing. I shift my target momentarily and let loose a few rounds, nicking the upper edge of the triple-changer's wing strut, causing him to pause and my saboteur to get the upper hand. The distraction is short-lived though as once again my nemesis decides to make me his prime target. It is a tactic (and here, I use the term loosely) of Megatron's that any time we are both involved in a battle he makes it his primary objective to challenge me in direct combat.

An utterly predictable event that always leaves my tactician shaking his helm in frustration at the lack of consideration to consequence given by such a powerful and ruthless mech. Often, it works to my advantage as I can work the gunmetal grey warlord into such a froth that his reckless desire for coating the ground with my energon leaves him open to a counterattack and a fairly simple one at that. This time appears to be no different as we both get in a few shots at each other before diving behind similar piles of scrap and rubble that provide some protection. This goes on for several minutes as we both attempt to disarm the other in a manner better suited to Earth's wild wild west.

Megatron apparently decides that he is through attempting to get a lock on my position and instead chooses to randomly fire a volley of shots from his cannon with the apparent hope that one will spell my doom. The first few are so poorly aimed that I hardly move my pedes to avoid being in their way. The second set gets a little luckier, managing to drive me from my hiding spot as well as box my large frame in between two jutting rock formations. This leaves me with little hope for escape as my exit route is suddenly cut off.

A sneer etches itself across Megatron's haggard faceplates as he lines up what he hopes to be a final blow between us. From somewhere across the field, I hear Ironhide's bellow of rage at the scene—it is a cross between a war cry and a cry of denial. It is not his fault that I sometimes blunder into these kinds of situations even after all of these vorns. The old warrior still treats me like the young, impetuous mech that I once was, protecting me from my own mistakes—usually at great peril to his own thick, metal hide. My peripheral catches a flash of black and white and my spark skips a pulse…before leveling out once again as the blue visor atop the monochromatic form flashes back at my optic sensors. My third is trying to get to me as well since he is physically the closest to my location. It is easy to see that his determination to help me is costing him in his current bout. The visored mech's much larger opponent is capitalizing on his distraction and raining down blows on the Porsche's frame.

I see the glow of an ember deep within the barrel aimed at my very essence as the weapon warms up, energy coalescing into one condensed ball of finality. A part of me expects to see a door winged form come to my rescue, ice blue optics burning near-white and a deep frown planted firmly in place upon those perfect lip plates. Prowl is typically nearby when we fight—an arrangement out of necessity as it simply makes it easier for us to coordinate orders and attacks during battle. Not this time, though. My tactician had his own target that he and a small battalion were to focus upon while the remaining mechs and I provide the ample distraction for our foes. I have yet to get confirmation as to his success in diffusing the situation, as well as the explosives so for now I am left with no choice, but to continue this engagement.

The whine of the weapon reaching critical mass marks what has been merely a few seconds in time as thoughts run through my processor a mile a minute. I see Megatron's digit pull the trigger for the final strike.

For a moment, I am frozen in place—fixated by what is to come.

The next instant my CPUs clear and before I consciously realize it, my frame is heaving with a surge of energy as I shift to the side at the last possible moment, the shot grazing my arm, grill and left flank before completing its path into the boulder just over my shoulder. The heat is immense and the scent of burned alloys and wiring permeates my senses, but I do not let the pain distract me. Propelled forward by momentum, I do not give my enemy the time to realize he has missed his chance. Instead, I allow the heady rush of life running free and rampant throughout my systems energize me, as well as the tightly clenched fist that my right servo has become.

Both the deep crunch of metal on metal and the solid impact at the end of my arm are immensely satisfactory as my fist connects with the once-scowling face plates before me. The dull grey helm snaps to the opposite side sharply, fueled by my inertia. A second later, Megatron is doubled over my other fist as it lands squarely in his midsection sharply denting in the thick chassis plating. The latter impact is strong enough to throw the leader of the Decepticons pedes over helm many yards before he greets the stone and gravel with his face creating a deep furrow in the ground as he slides to a stop.

The drop in noise is noticeable as both sides momentarily stop in their tracks registering what just happened. Megatron tries, but fails to gain his feet until Soundwave finally appears at his side, leveraging the warlord's dented frame into a somewhat vertical manner. The thick rasp of the Decepticon's vocals are for once a welcome sound as he calls out the retreat, barely heard over the din of the battlefield.

Soundwave must have conveyed his leader's will to the rest of the troops via comm. as well for quite suddenly all of the Decepticon warriors stop in the middle of whatever fight they are involved in with no qualm and immediately take to the sky. A few parting blasts follow the retreating mechs from some of my more overzealous fighters before their crows of delight and shouts of victory herald the end of this battle.

I allow myself a small, satisfied smile behind my faceplates, although it is short-lived as I take in the condition of my troops. Most will need several days at least to heal properly, but hopefully the same can be said for our enemy. I watch Bumblebee and a few of the other minibots scatter quickly out of the pathway of the thundering presence of one Autobot CMO. Ratchet's white faceplates hold a dark glare of contention for all things in his path—his equally dark chevron merely exasperating the effect. It is a trial to not roll my optics as he makes his way with the determination of a belligerent bull right to where I have now found myself to be seated. …I may have pushed myself a bit beyond normal operating parameters this time.

The ever deepening frown pulling down the sides of the medic's face as he runs several scans over my form seems to imply as much. That, or Ratchet has suddenly picked up some minor form of telepathy and is attuned to my current thoughts. Either option does not bode well for me.

"I am operational, Ratchet."

"Hmph. I'll be the judge of that. Don't even think about moving from that spot anytime in the near future. It's a fragging miracle that you haven't bled out yet."

Optics shuttering, albeit _slowly_ in a blink I run an internal maintenance report and find that my energy levels seemed to have simply skipped the yellow zone and headed straight into the red. Dully, I note that there also appears to be a steady stream of energon flowing from the side that took the brunt of Megatron's fusion cannon. Apparently I was not as fast as I had originally assumed/convinced myself of.

As I wait for the boxy medic to pull all of his necessary tools from sub space in order to more than likely patch up the major problems with my frame, other mechs that are obviously less than 100% steadily make their way to our position. Most simply drop to the ground or a boulder as soon as they are near enough—content to wait for their moment of excellence with our exulted CMO. I am too harsh on Ratchet, though. As cantankerous of a bot as he is, there is no one that matches him in either skill or dedication when it comes to repairing a Cybertronian. There is much that I owe him.

A shunt is produced and connected by dexterous, red servos to one of the energy ports lining my inner arm. The immediate rush of energy into my starved systems leaves me light-headed for a moment and our medic quickly catches my shoulder as I sway a little. Peering shrewdly into my optics, Ratchet waits until I seem to regain myself before releasing his grip and bending back to the task at hand of mending the somewhat gaping hole in my side.

The creak of pistons followed by a long groan signifies Ironhide sitting himself down beside me. There's a mulish look aimed my way, more than likely because of my reckless actions, but there is also that hint of approval shining in his optics. The look that tells me that I am still a young punk to him, but one that he is proud of.

Managing a slight nod, I voice the most immediate of my concerns.

"How many casualties?"

Sighing, the old warrior leans back against the large granite formation that we are sitting beside.

"Not bad as you would think. Most are walkin' wounded and so far only Smokescreen, Powerglide and Cliffjumper have reported in with serious damage."

Nodding to myself…then stopping at 'The Look' that is directed at me as the motion causes Ratchet to pause in his work.

"We are very fortuitous then."

Straightening slightly, I glance around a note which faceplates are present, as well as which appear to be missing. Ironhide seems to realize what I have noticed as he comments.

"Prowl's team was successful at reclaimin' tha power plant, but requested help with their wounded. Jazz took a few of the less-damaged bots to see what they could do. He'll be getting back any minute, I wager."

"Well, that is good news, my friend."

The two of us sit in peace as the boxy red and white continues with his low mutterings. I have just about settled into a light recharge when suddenly there is commotion all around us. The sound of running pedes is the only forewarning we have before Sunstreaker slides to a stop in front of Ratchet, Bluestreak's limp form cradled in his arms. Immediately the medic's attention is diverted as he roughly orders the frontliner to deposit his charge _carefully_ on the ground. The young gunner has definitely seen better days. The worst damage appears to be a fairly sizable hole that seems to have burst from his middle, although the way in which the metal of his armor is curled outward and not in would imply that he was shot in the back. A coward's shot.

"How's he doin' doc?" Jazz's less than enthusiastic voice cuts the tension. The saboteur appears to be drained and his expression is as closed off as the visored mech ever allows himself to be.

Not pausing in the delicate work of reattaching lines the medic replies, "His internals are a mess, but he'll survive. The kid's tough."

"_Thank Primus_."

I take in my third again and note his slumped posture. The good news does not appear to have lifted any of the weight that is bearing down upon the normally jovial mech. Something else is wrong and I am struck with the terrible insight that I am not going to like the answer that finds me.

"Jazz, what is it?" Ironhide picks up on the slightly-off mech as well, turning to regard him.

Scrubbing a filthy black servo over tired face plates, the black and white loudly vents. With a troubled expression, his subdued voice says it all, "It's Prowl. They have him."

Anything else that is said is lost to the suddenly loud thrumming of my spark in my audio receptors. The saboteur's lip plates move, but all that registers to me is static. My very frame feels as though it will seize, just to stop the sharp pain at my core.

_Prowl_…

_My Prowl_.

* * *

_A/N: Did you make it to the end? Hooray and KUDOS if you did! As always, please let me know what you thought of it, as well as any questions, etc. that you have. Remember to leave a logged in comment so that I can reply to you or at the very least say thanks (I'm not a big fan of mucking up the top with responses ;). Thank you again for taking the time to read this story! I promise at least a monthly update of this story until the darn thing is finished. ^_^_


	6. Abduction

**Duty Bound - Part ****6**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: Prowl, Jazz and Optimus

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mentions of mechxmech and physical torture. Prowl angst.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Transformers…even the cute ones.

_A/N__: At last, an update! __ This chapter is a bit all over the place, but rest assured there is actual plot movement below. Just a warning…things will get worse over the next couple of chapters before they get better._

_Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter and especially those who gave me some feedback. You totally rock!_

* * *

(_Prowl's POV_)

Awareness is such a fleeting thing.

Different hues and light filter into my subconscious along with vague sounds that are sporadic and fleeting. All are disjointed and indistinguishable, blurring quickly from one to the next. I have a brief moment of clarity as my sight manages to focus on the one carrying me and most distinctly a purple emblem emblazoned across their chestplates, but it is lost just as quickly as the darkness blankets me in its nothingness once again. The coherency I had momentarily achieved lost to the tide.

Cybertronians do not dream…at least, not like organics are capable of. Occasionally, memory files are dislodged from their storage and what follows are disjointed replays of events that have already occurred. Usually the playback is random and meaningless, particularly since the cause of such lapses is processor-trauma-related. Sometimes…not so much.

* * *

_(__Flashback - Cybertron before the fall of Iacon)_

_I am in a room alone._

_I know this would bother some, but it does not bother me. I glance down and once again stare at the image capture of my younger self. Beside me in the still image is a much larger mech with a broad smile stretching across his faceplates—a sight that is rare to many, but for myself and a select few others. His deep blue servo clasps the right shoulder plate of my younger self, the size of which nearly engulfing the crisp white plating that it lies upon. I may not smile at the time, but I am proud._

_It is the day of my promotion to Sentinel Prime's Second in Command._

_For a moment, I __allow myself to become lost in memories of that day until I belatedly register the time displayed on my chronometer. I should be in recharge, but I am not tired. Instead, I carefully place my one keepsake back up on the highest shelf of the built in shelving of my berth room and quietly ease out of my quarters._

_The moonless night of Cybertron wraps the world outside of Autobot Headquarters in a shroud of darkness. At times like this, Iacon shines brightest along the horizon, both a light of hope to free bots and (regrettably) a beacon for targeting by the Decepticons. I do not fear their presence this night, though. The last battle was difficult and although we were not the victors this vorn both sides are reeling from their losses and are busy regrouping. This is a fact that weighs heavily on my processors as I feel a great deal responsible for the outcome of this last battle. Had I just a little more data on the Seekers…perhaps if it had factored into my calculations the strategies I had produced would have succeeded. Then again, perhaps not. Megatron's new second, Starscream, is a particularly vicious and unpredictable element in our ever-expanding war._

_I let a deep draught of air out through my vents and feel the tips of my sensor panels twitch minutely in response. I am still wound too tight to get proper rest. It may be in my best interest to head down to medical and see if whoever is on call at the moment can give me a mild sedative just this once. At this point, I am willing to try anything._

_With another sigh and a quick stretch of my lower back cables, I turn down the next hall intent on my new destination._

_Light reflecting from a window I pass momentarily catches my optic for some reason or another and I turn half-curiously to see where the glint originated from. __Through the thick glass I can make out a solitary form of crimson red and royal blue plating just outside on the veranda. The form of my new Prime is an expected sight, but what surprises me more is the hunched over position he has assumed. Not thinking, I let my pedes take me the few steps to the door that opens out to the patio. For a sparkbeat I take in the wretched ball that our magnanimous leader has construed himself into and something inside me shifts…ever so slightly._

_Optimus…_

_He has not been Prime for all that long in the grand scheme of things and perhaps I have taken for granted the facade that he wears, which is so similar to my own. This war has not been easy for any of us, but I am betting that it has worn heavy especially upon him. Again, my sensor panels twitch, but this time in response to an errant thought floating around in my processor. He needs something. Or perhaps it is someone? Who does this Prime have to rely upon during his darkest hours?_

_That alone decides it for me. __Processor made up, I allow my pede to scuff slightly along the steel plating of the deck as I make my way to him. He visibly starts, antennae helm shooting up as his mask slides into place just as quickly—both the physical and the metaphorical. I do not let the wall he draws detour me in the slightest. I have seen enough here tonight to not be swayed by his stoicism this time._

_He seems to notice my change in demeanor as well, but it only leads him to regard me suspiciously, perhaps even cynically. I can not imagine that his road has been easy thus far. There are always those around him that wait and are constantly on the lookout for his failings. Looking for reasons to dismiss and disregard both him and his title. Being the One chosen to lead and protect our people is probably something that he never imagined possible in his previous life._

_My frame stops so close to his that I can feel the tight, nervous thrum of energy in his body and visibly see the anxious look that lurks in his optics. As much trust as there is between us now I have always been respectful of his personal space and he of mine. Instead of withdrawing though, I allow my field to expand and gently greet his erratically flaring one. At the same time, I breach that last gap between us and lay my hand upon the smooth armor of his shoulder._

_There is confusion in his optics as well now, followed closely by something else…some kind of raw need that leaves me helpless to turn away from. I know what I must do. I know what it is that he needs and I will be there for him as no other can._

_I take his servo in my own and lead him away from the ragged edge._

_(End Flashback)_

* * *

Coolness burns a line from my mouth down into my fuel tank rudely snapping me out of the musings of my processors and back into harsh reality. The taste of bitter energon lingers at my lipplates as energy is infused into my slowly chugging systems. A quick check returns my energy levels as reading horribly low, but no longer at the point that triggers automatic stasis. My starved systems sputter along uncertainly leaving my helm in a veiled fog as I try to concentrate on my surroundings and remember what has happened.

My audios are the first to clear their haze as voices once again filter through. Three or four mechs—one low and monotone, another screechy and higher in pitch than the others. The third (or maybe fourth) is a lower rumbling and based on their energy field is also the closest to me. My remaining optic finally powers on and had I not been so low on fuel I would have immediately lashed out. As it is, I can not help an involuntary jerk as Hook's faceplates leer down at me, uncomfortably close in range.

He gives an ugly laugh along with Starscream and who I can now identify as Skywarp at my rather weak attempts at removing myself from his proximity. Apparently he is the one who was force-feeding me that horrid brew a few moments ago.

Again, I struggle weakly to right myself, but find that it is not just my injuries that are hampering my mobility. A pair of glowing stasis cuffs is also clasped onto my servos ensuring that my motor skills are not mine to command.

Captured then. And by the feel of my chassis, wounded to boot. Neither fact bodes well for me, but for now I push it aside in my processes and try to get a better gage of my surroundings. All the while I gather as much sensory data as I can from the remnants of my door wings in an attempt to see if any familiar energy signatures register. I continue to ignore my captors for the moment until I confirm that I am indeed alone. Some tension is released internally for the moment. At least it appears as though I am the only one in danger. A small comfort…

My vantage point suddenly tilts sharply as Hook decides he is done tending to my systems and simply drops me in a heap upon my side. The change in position catches my left sensor panel at an awkward angle and I throttle the urge to do no more than grimace at the discomfort. This is not the first time that I have been captured by the enemy, and it will probably not be my last. I know what to expect in regards to their 'hospitality'. There is also no question that many of the Megatron's 'interrogators' pull a certain satisfaction from ringing cries and screams from their subjects. It is something that I will use every ounce of strength in my spark to deny them the pleasure of.

A shadow falls over my downed form and I barely manage to turn my helm enough to peer out of my only functioning optic—the one on the side facing the ground. There are a fair number of nicks and holes in the air commander's frame that I get some small satisfaction from. I can easily determine the ones caused from acid bleeding through versus a sharpshooter's hole made with almost surgical precision. Good to know that Bluestreak was able to get a few licks in before he had been taken out.

Frowning darkly, Starscream stoops to my level and takes a firm grip of my collar—the pressure of which will undoubtedly leave deep rents in my armor. He hauls me up so that I can at least look properly into the sparkless ruby-red optics set high in his charcoal grey faceplates. I say nothing and this seems to annoy the seeker as easily as if I had spat into his face. With a quick jerk he shakes me once before his scratchy vocals fire up.

"Well, isn't this a great pleasure? Prime's second and head tactician paying us a visit. Have you anything to say for yourself, Prowl?"

He pauses to gage my reaction, but I do not deign him with any sort of response. Instead I choose merely to stare through and past him. The trick with Starscream that I learned over the vorns is to not give him any notice. The mech acts like a spoiled youngling on the best of days and to not be the center of attention drives him to lose control quite quickly. The down side being his loss of control may result in more injuries to me, but it keeps him frustrated and flustered and at this point it is a risk that I am willing to take. Keeping the Air Commander off balance will buy my comrades a little more time in retrieving me from wherever the Decepticons have holed up.

Based upon the lack of mustiness and degradation from salt water to the surroundings I can surmise that we are not on the Nemesis. There are pluses and minuses to that. While the Nemesis is the most difficult of the Decepticon's Earth bases to break into, it is also a known site to the Autobots and in particular to Jazz and his brood. Wherever they are holding me will take time for the ops mechs to find and infiltrate. Time is one thing that I do have not have much control of, nor my captors' will.

A harsh shake leaves my stability gyros out of sorts for a click and draws my attention back to my captors. Judging by the glare on Starscream's faceplates he apparently did not appreciate my lack of focus on him. Once he achieves optic contact with me again he sneers before adjusting his grip from my collar to my throat. The sudden tightening and stymieing of vital fluids to my processor garners an instinctual reaction that I am helpless to avoid as my CPU immediately floods my lines with energy (a sort of adrenaline rush) in a feeble attempt to aide my body in breaking away from a threat. Sadly, today is not my day as I can not manage more than a few wobbly jerks like some hooked fish in an attempt to relieve some pressure from my neck.

"Now that's more like it."

The air commander's grip shifts again and I can not help, but gasp as my lines are freed and energon flows through my form once more.

"Megatron will reward me greatly for capturing you, Prowl, but only if you prove useful."

Again I am carelessly released, my knee joints buckling under my frame's weight causing me to crumple where I am set down. Between the stasis cuffs and my pre-existing injuries, this could become rather trying if the Decepticons continue this slag. I glare as best as I can at the blue pedes that stride past my downed position. I imagine my expression is not as up to par as per usual. Sideswipe would undoubtedly be disappointed.

"Hmm…now what shall we do? I know it is a useless effort to get you to voluntarily provide any information, so we can just skip that part. That leaves my favorite two options when dealing with you Autobots."

I can not see the seeker captain or any of his trine from my position, but I can easily hear there systems and that of Starscream's retreating form. What is he doing? Usually Megatron's treacherous second enjoys a little more face time when I am captured, "relishing the moment" I would imagine.

"Blitzwing. Astrotrain. See to our 'guest', will you? He needs to be ready for Soundwave's visit." The wicked laughter of the seeker trine echoes hollowly along the metal halls as the three jets leave me to my fate.

Fear is not something that I am unfamiliar with, nor pain for that matter. In spite of what many may think, I feel fear every time that my mechs enter battle. In my world, one miscalculation can result in the capture or death of a friend or comrade and I often find myself praying to Primus for the strength to overcome my fears and surmount them. Watching the two broad shadows that quickly overtake the light from above I do my best to prepare for what lies ahead and remind myself as to why I will overcome this. There are still those who need me.

Jazz…Bluestreak…even those pit-spawn twins. And then there is my Prime. Funny that even my processor can not help, but linger over the thought of him…_Optimus_.

* * *

(_Back at the Ark_)

(_Jazz's POV_)

Considering the pounding that Prime gave ol' Megs, you would think that the Ark would at least be mildly celebrating post-battle. In actuality, it feels like a death knoll has been rung around here. A lot of bots need repairs. A lot of bots look just damned weary. I'm only grateful that Ratch' saw fit to put the boss bot in one of the few private rooms in the med bay while he recovers. I think it would take one look at that mech's faceplates to finish off this group of bots for the night.

He's not taking it well. Frell, neither am I, but a lifetime of observing bots and being likewise observed makes it tangible for me to not wear my thoughts out in the open. I'm not saying that it's easy, but that doesn't matter. It has to be done. For whose sake though, I can't really tell. There is no doubt that Prowl was not in a good way when the 'Cons took him. He may sit behind a desk, but I have sparred enough with my friend to know that he can be a downright difficult fragger to put down in combat. Not that it is a bad thing in this instance.

From my dark corner I can pick out a splash of canary yellow from Sunstreaker's tall, sullen form sitting hunched over next to Bluestreak's med berth. The kid's still out of it from his surgery and I imagine that there is a little bit more going on than that if Ratchet was the operating medic. Blue never does well when something goes wrong with Prowl, especially if it has to do with him. A little drug-enforced recharge will go a long way to stabilizing him in more ways than one. Wish Ratchet had thought to do the same for Prime, but then again I don't know if he is privy to that info. The last thing I need to do now is open my mouth and step on _that_ landmine.

I just wish that I wasn't sitting around on my servos here doing what amounts to a whole lot of nothing while a good friend is under the control of the enemy. At least Raj was miraculously NOT injured during our last bout with the Decepticons, so I already have him out on recon trying to find their trail. Bee and Hound will be joining him in the field once the good doc' clears them for duty as well. At times like this it is critical to get out there within the first orn or else our chances of finding them will drop exponentially by the hour.

At times like this it really sucks to be the commander of my unit. What I wouldn't give to just be a rank and file special ops bot that could go out into the field the same as the rest of my team. But I am needed here, especially since we are missing our second in command and Prowl's duties normally are a pretty tall order to fill. I also need to be ready with a strategy once I get a positive id on a location from one of my scouts. I may not have Prowl's battle computer and his level of tactical know-how, but in whatever areas I lack I make up for it in creativity and ingenuity.

Wheeljack passes my position at a quick clip and gives me little more than a raised brow ridge and a flash of his vocal indicators. No doubt he is moving to grab the next patient in line to work on. Scanning the room I can see that every online mech with any medical training is helping—even if it is nothing more complicated than making sure that energon lines and oil feeds are attached and running properly.

Well, that is enough sulking from me for today. Pushing off from the wall I circumvent Ratchet's position and slip along the outside to the private berths entering the room just as silently as I can.

The overhead light is dimmed for recharge, but I can tell just by the cadence of his systems that Optimus is still online. His entire middle is criss-crossed with thick weld marks and the new, thickly-plated armor is the dull gray of unassimilated metal. In time, chromatic nanites will merge with the new pieces and replicate into Prime's normal colors. For now, he just looks like a wreck.

I shift, but say nothing and although he does not move a micrometer on his berth, I can tell that I have Optimus' attention.

"How many casualties do we have?"

"More than the usual. Our entire front line has been through for one thing or another. Some are as minor as a dislocated socket or a dented in fender."

"And the worst…?"

Sighing, I rub my tired the back of my neck cables in an attempt to un-kink them.

"Bluestreak will probably be out of commission for the next week. He had a bit of internal damage that Ratch' took care of, but you know how long it takes for self-repairs to kick in on those kinds of injuries. Bumblebee is waiting for the all clear with his leg before being released. Tracks and Trailbreaker are going to require a bit of fabrication for destroyed limbs. I think the good doc' is planning to leave them offline until he's ready with the new parts. Slingshot and Air Raid are grounded for the time being, which of course means we are down Superion for the time being. It seems as though they took in upon themselves to try to stop Starscream from taking off with Prowl. Might have worked too if they hadn't forgotten about the rest of the seekers.

Watching what is visible of his faceplates at that last bit of news I can easily see the weight settle in those optics and the worn look it creates.

"I see…any news on Prowl?"

"Not yet, boss. I have Raj out following their trail and Hound and 'Bee will be joining him in recon once Ratchet lets them leave. We'll need to be ready as soon as they find wherever it is that the 'Cons have taken him."

"Assuming that we find them…"

Frowning at the uncharacteristic morose tone of my CO, I am quick to correct him.

"Have a little more faith in our mechs, Optimus. You know that they're the best at what they do and there's no way any of us are stopping until we have Prowl back."

Silence is my only response.

"Damn it Prime, if you can trust in anything have faith in Prowl. He will never give up and would expect the same of you."

"It's my fault, Jazz. I should have been there to protect him."

Anger suddenly draining from me, I blink a bit stupidly at the confession. So that is what is eating at him.

"Listen, Prime—you couldn't be there no more than he could've been behind you with Megatron. We all have our jobs to do and both of you know that better than anyone else. We can't always do what we want to, but that doesn't change the fact that we care. And you do, right?"

Dull, blue-grey optics that had been staring listlessly ahead suddenly focus razor-sharp on me.

"Of course I do!"

The strength behind his words is unmistakable. I think that he didn't mean to express his emotions so fully as he pauses and seems to regroup, almost seeming to look for an excuse for his tone. I can't help, but smile at his little revelation. It puts my spark a bit at ease and I think that Prime needed to say it. Of course, I think my silent smiling might be disturbing him just a bit. I let him begin to squirm before I take pity and break the silence.

"It's okay Optimus, _I know_."

"You do?"

For someone as magnanimous as the boss bot, he sure looks like a youngling who just got caught doing something he knew that he shouldn't be.

"Yup! Don't worry—I haven't told a single spark. So long as you are making Prowler happy, that is good enough for me."

"I…see. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, boss. We still need to get Prowler back and he's going to need every bit of support when we do, so you had better be ready to be there for him."

"I will. By Primus, I will be whoever he needs me to be."

That settled, it's time for me to get serious and in spite of the doctor's orders I start outlining the plan of attack that has been brewing in my processors.

* * *

(_Prowl's POV_)

Finding my way back to consciousness is a long and difficult struggle. Even when I think that I have achieved a semi-lucid state the doubt still lingers as to whether or not I am truly awake or still drifting. The light sound of clicking and scratching permeates the haze that has settled over my mind. At first the noise merely continues to lull me, but as it slowly gains in volume and the added sound of chattering reaches my audios I feel compelled to online my remaining optic. Thankfully it still functions in spite of things.

Soft, blue light washes the ground before me in its dim glow. Apparently I am lying on the stone floor of some cell presumably in the same base that my captors initially brought me to. Although…after checking my internal chronometer I am startled to realize that I could have been feasibly moved to a new location over the length of time that I have been out of it. That does not bode well for my being found. I need to somehow identify where I am at the very least to clarify this time discrepancy. It seems odd that the Decepticons would leave me alone for so long, but my dropping energy levels are proof enough of that.

The chattering is back and it is not just a figment of my CPU. Tiny red eyes peer out at me from just beyond the reach of my optic light as a larger member of the rodent family regards me suspiciously from its dark domain. Fearlessly, it approaches my downed form and stops no more than a foot from my faceplates. A pink nose delicately sniffs the air as if sampling it for whatever kind of threat I could be. It must not have any problem with what it finds as it disinterestedly turns away and hobbles towards a small gap at the bottom of a wall. A shame that the hole is not, but a little larger for me to follow.

Humorlessly, I chuckle at my own musings before I have to choke back a cry as something noticeably shifts inside of me. Clumsily, I drag my now unbound servo to my mid section as if to stop the pain that seems to radiate from my very core. Energon rises hot in my throat, bitter with the acidity of being partially processed. One of those two heavy bodies seems to have broken something they shouldn't have. I did my best to roll with their punches and kicks, but one can only do so much and in the end I blacked out under their assault.

Gasping for ventilations to cool my heated systems, I experience the same foreign movement inside and there is not much that I can do for it. To distract myself, I run a diagnostic to see what exactly is wrong with me. An error list that seems to go on indefinitely scrolls across my HUD. I am no medic, but I can at least pick out some of the errors that I see.

Stilted flow of main energon lines? That would be the dented-in tubing of my throat that is constricting energy, oil, oxygen and anything else that flows to and from my helm. The pressure makes it difficult to inhale or exhale let alone concentrate, but at least they are not crimped off completely. It is a pain that I can manage by remaining calm and in control of my ventilations.

Disabled secondary sensor net? The gaping slats along my backplates ache, but other than some lingering coldness I can not feel much beyond that. Full removal of door wings typically results in the CPU shutting down all systems that are associated with them. My balance will be terrible, but at least they are one less target for an interrogator. Something about sensor panels just seems to attract all sorts of attention for better or for worse. I have to be wary of Prime whenever we are alone as he has a difficult time not fondling them if they happen to be within reach of his greedy servos.

_Prime_.

Rolling over to my back to stare flatly at the slate ceiling I contemplate what I learned during my interrogation. The Decepticons definitely still need to learn that their bragging can be very useful, even to the audios of a prisoner. Prime was injured by Megatron, but no where near as badly as the Decepticon warlord was by him—something that I am quite grateful for. Ratchet has undoubtedly already seen to him with all of his usual bluster, I muse. Hopefully he is following our CMO's orders and resting somewhere peacefully. I will miss our usual post-battle debrief, but I am certain that Ironhide or Jazz can handle it in my absence.

I wonder though who will handle Prime, though? He has the disconcerting habit of blaming himself for any injury, any failing of the bots under him. It is something that I can usually assuage him of eventually, or at the very least distract him from enough that the guilt does not linger long. Here, in this cell I can admit that there is gain on my end for taking care of him during those times—a sense of fulfillment of course and some kind of simple joy in being the one that he needs. It is not always about interfacing. As enjoyable as it always is and fulfilling in many other ways, typically one or both of us is too tired or sore for such things after fighting. No, usually it is time that I can spend helping him to relax simply by servos and words, helping him to find his balance just as he unknowingly helps me to find mine.

When did I let him become such an integral part of my life? I have almost always lived to serve my Prime, whoever that may be, but never has it been like this. Never have I been so singularly focused on one mech such that every aspect of my day, of my very existence revolves around them. Around making him happy. Thinking back to the last time I was with him before the battle I can recognize something about my behavior then. Admit to what has really been bothering me of late. I could not linger not because I did not want to be there (as I had originally felt was the case)—instead it was because I wanted more than anything to remain pressed against him even if it was just in recharge. To simply be in his presence for however long he will have me. How can I be so selfish? So needy? It is not about me, nor should it ever be. There is only him. It can only be him.

Loud thuds resound in the hall beyond my cell doors, causing the floor that I lie upon to quake in response. It seems that my reprieve is over. At least the brief break that I had helped me to clear my processors and allowed my self-repair systems to do a little work for whatever good it will do. Hopefully I can remain aware long enough to give the others time to find me. I do not look forward to facing Soundwave if he is indeed lined up as one of my future "playmates" and I will need to be in as good of shape as I can to handle his manipulations. Then again, being friends with Jazz has its odd fringe benefits—like knowing how to tune someone out of your processor when you want to.

Smiling grimly to myself as the door opens permitting a large, blocky body to enter I pray to Primus for the strength to endure this. For the strength to return home.

* * *

_A/N: Well, this chapter was getting rather long, so it has been split into two parts. The next piece is definitely dark, but I do not plan to have any graphic violence or non-con stuff. There might be implications of things, but I would rather leave that up to you to figure out versus writing something overly explicit. Hopefully okay?_

_Ah well. As always, please let me know what you think. Comments/suggestions/disagreements are always welcome just…uh…make them constructive, ne? ;)_


	7. Desperation

**Duty Bound - Part 7**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: Jazz + Ops Bots, Optimus Prime

Rating: M

Warnings: Violence of the battle kind, mechxmech

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the below mecha. Boo-hoo.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so SO much for all of the reviews/faves/alerts. I am so glad that there at least a few people who like this story and it has kept me tweaking this chapter for months now. ;)  
__Okay…so, yeah it's been a while since the last update of this story and I must beg forgiveness for that. On the bright side, you get super long chapter as a result. I hope that you enjoy it!_

* * *

(_Jazz__'__s __POV_)

Patience.

Patience is a game that I am all too familiar with. I have learned to play it well and to appreciate the sometimes long joors of waiting that comes with it. There is a sort of stillness to it, like balancing on an energon blade's razor edge. To be impatient—to slip and cut oneself—it can mean all kinds of very bad things that I'd rather avoid. Things that have left both visible and invisible reminders on me from the past—scars that make me who I am, as well as who I am not.

The static-laden thrum of Hound's hologram wrapped around not only his frame, but mine and Bumblebee's as well is a minor comfort as we stand as flush as physically possible given our frames to a carved stone wall. A little ways down my scanners can pick up Mirage's energy signature as well. Thankfully I am only one of two bots that can detect an invisible Mirage. The other is standing a couple of yards down from me.

The silence stretches on wrapping us in its thick fog. The only interruption is the steady drip of water somewhere a little ways down from our position that keeps niggling at the heightened sensors in my audio horns. They are currently tweaked to be a bit more on the sensitive side at the moment. Something that I'm sure Ratchet would love to know. What can I say? The mech just has personal issues with bots adjusting their own software or hardware. For what we are doing I will risk being subjected to the lengthy and vitriol lecture from the good doc later. It is all worth it to me.

I just need the signal. My systems are all primed and ready to go. All that they need to kick into high gear is the ignition.

By now Prime's forces should be suitably occupying the Decepticons that are stationed at this makeshift base. Trailbreaker calculated that we have about an hour to play with before back up arrives from the Nemesis. At least there is no Megatron to deal with this time—Mirage confirmed no more than a day ago that he is still in the process of being reconstructed from our last rumble with the Cons. Small favors from Primus, I suppose.

It doesn't change the fact that Prowl has been missing for a little over a week now. A week for those damn Cons to have done whatever they wanted to him. I'm no fool and I know that Prime isn't one either. Yeah, I kind of shield him and the other command staff from the worst of what the Cons do to our bots when captured, but it doesn't take someone like Perceptor to figure out the majority of the bad news that is left unsaid. Of course, both Ratch' and Prowl are fairly privy to the risks associated with capture. The doc because he usually gets the job of putting me back together (physically at least). Prowl because technically he is over the Ops division and therefore my boss. More so than that, he's probably one of the few bots who really knows me and has helped me get through some pretty rough slag in the past.

Here's hoping that I'm not going to have to return the favor.

Sadly, it hasn't been looking like that will be the case. We'd wasted a couple of weeks searching every nook and cranny of the planet and started to venture even beyond that to our forces on Cybertron before we just so happened to luck out. Primus, I thought that it was a trap at first, but it's looking more and more like a random gift from above.

Blaster—and thank the Matrix for him—ran across a short transmission by a couple of fliers nowhere near any known Decepticon bases a day or so ago. The communication itself was fairly innocuous and dull-witted, but the location was an odd one even for the Cons. At that point, I had expended the majority of our leads and was running dry in may ways, so if there was even the slightest chance of some real intel I wasn't going to overlook. 'Raj was still out spying on the Nemesis, so I ended up sending Bumblebee to the coordinates with Cliffjumper as back up.

They confirmed that not only was there some ramshackle Con base, but that 'Screamer and his gang were hanging about along with some Casseticons. Multiple Casseticons, which of course means Soundwave is more than likely lurking nearby. Considering that he normally does not leave old Meg's side when he's out…well, let's just say the chances of our missing bot keeping company with them is on the upper end of the possibility scale.

All of that has led us to this moment. To my Ops team scrambling into position courtesy of a hastily assembled plan using the old divide and distract technique. Prime has all operable mechs attacking this place from the outside keeping the enemy focused on them while the three of us sneak in from the back.

A ping to my comms has me moving before I even dismiss the message. Sounds like Prime's doing his job—now its time for us to do ours.

* * *

(_Prime__'__s __POV_)

Missiles sail noisily by my audios screeching like birds of prey as they chase their targets. Almost half-consciously I file the results of their impact in my processor. Other thoughts way heavily on my processor straying my concentration from the battle taking place around me. Pressing thoughts centered around the bots missing from this skirmish, especially the bot that is conspicuously absent from my side.

My second. My pillar of confidence and stillness.

He has been MIA for no more than two Earth weeks and already his lack of presence has sent ripples throughout the Ark and its occupants. I wonder if he knows just how essential he is to the Autobots. How much a part of everyone's lives he has become. Yes, there was a time when Prowl was a distant and mysterious figure to most (myself included at the beginning), but the world has moved on since then. My tactician may not be the most extroverted spark of this ragtag team, but his care and involvement in the other mechs' lives no longer goes unnoticed.

It is just that _certain_ mechs have an interesting way of showing their appreciation.

_Speaking of the devils…_

A blur of crimson and gold race past me before transforming into root mode and leaping head first into the fray (literally). Their war cries are full of power and rage and noticeably lacking the normal glee that they particularly reserve for battle. I have noticed that the two have been fiercely protective of our SIC ever since a time many vorns ago when he personally saved both of their chassis when they blundered because of their own stubbornness into a trap. The closeness between the twins and Prowl as well as the rest of the inhabitants of the Ark overall has increased exponentially over our time spent awake here on Earth.

Our close proximity was bound to either drive us apart or bring us closer together as a unit. Thankfully, it was the former and not the latter. I can only hope and pray that it serves us well today. Without Prowl's normal tactical oversight, Trailbreaker has stepped in to fill his pedes temporarily. The large, black mech is an excellent tactician in his own rights and has worked directly under my second so I have little doubt that his strategies in battle are sound. I just hope that they are enough.

I find my gaze continually scanning the battlefield for a glimpse of black and white plating—either Jazz's or Prowl's—as it will either signal our success or our failure. Gritting my denta I hunker down as another strafing round slices the air above my helm. Taking a few precious microseconds to target I fire a few shots at the red and silver jet as it reaches the edge of my weapon's range. The loud report temporarily drowns out the sounds of fighting surrounding me and for a surreal moment I follow the path my shots take. My rifle aim is true as one of Starscream's thruster shatters then explodes belching out smoke and orange-tinged flame.

The Air Commander's screeching curses are easy to make out over the din as he attempts to distance himself from the field. No longer concerned with his presence for the moment I quickly take note of where my mechs are and how they are fairing. Time. We just need to buy Jazz and his team enough time to rescue Prowl. After that it does not matter to me. We can sound a retreat and run away with our driveshafts tucked between our legs for all that I care so long as my second is back amongst us.

(_Flashback __-__The __Ark, s__hortly __after __the __Autobot__'__s __revival_)

"_If that is all for now security-wise, I would recommend that all bots become familiar with the Sit Rep regarding the local sentient species and their culture. Based upon Prowl's calculations we will no doubt have interactions with them sooner rather than later." _

_A quick glance around the room at my senior staff is met with nods of agreement and I allow myself a small smile behind my faceplate._

"_Very well then, you are dismissed. Go in peace."_

_My head of Special Operations and Senior Communications Officer are the first to leave, fairly bounding out of the hastily cleared meeting room. No doubt they are eager to do exactly as I instructed and learn more about the Homo sapiens that inhabit our temporary refuge. The others are far more sedate in their exit, although Ratchet does seem to be running a little shorter than normal. I can imagine that the unknown technology of this planet has his hackles raised as far as immunizations and the like goes._

_Only one mech remains, still in the process of gathering his myriad of datapads and organizing them before he gathers the neat little pile up. That too brings a smile to my face, but for a different reason. Such a simple, mundane act makes things seem just that microspec more normal in our upended world. It is something that I greatly crave at the moment. Well, that and one other thing…_

_As he stands straight and confident the overhead lights flash sharply against his plating. It would appear that at some point my tactician has taken a moment to tidy himself up to his normal immaculate appearance, unlike the rest of my troops. The deep gloss of his armor is both enticing and intoxicating. It may seem as though it was only yesterday since I claimed that sinewy form, but my frame says otherwise and I am helpless to stop the sharp rev that echoes throughout the now empty room from deep within my engine._

_Optics quickly connect with my own at the sound and I am drawn in further by the bright blue lights that gaze upon me. The look that he is giving me is both shrewd and calculating. Indomitably my second is weighing his options and analyzing the outcomes that his battle computer provides to his processor. A fairly standard behavior of his that I am all too familiar with, but typically one reserved for work and not this. His analysis is lightening quick and a decision is reached before my mouth plates even open to suggest anything._

_Smartly, he turns and marches by me, but not before swaying his newly altered sensor panels in just that certain way that could seduce the strongest of bots. Again, sinuous in ways that metal—even living metal—should not be capable of. But the lure works and I follow his exit out of the room, fans pulling in an increasing amount of the planet's atmosphere in preparation for what is to hopefully come._

_The walk down the warm orange hallway is uneventful for the most part. We strangely run into no other bots, but that is probably because of the plethora of information that Teletran I and Prowl have gathered to absorb. If I did not know any better, I would say that my tactician had anticipated this preoccupation by the rest of the Ark's crew and had in fact encouraged it. Strategists are definitely the sort to be wary of._

_As we near my new quarters I take the last breem to become visually acquainted with my second's new alternative mode. There are more edges than I remember from his previous armor, but the sharp lines suit him and the curved door panels are an added bonus. My servo reaches for the lower edge of one without my knowledge until a sharp look stops it in its path. The polar optics that regard me now hold a hint of the fire that lies within him. It captivates me now the same as it did that first time that the tactician approached me._

_We are barely through the door before I can not restrain myself anymore and descend upon him. Plating perfectly smooth and warm to the touch slides against the microfine sensors on each digit as I skim both servos over the wide arching panels upon his back. He does not hesitate to respond to my advances, perhaps even as eager as I am to return to this bit of normalcy as well._

_There is no resistance as gently I use the same black and white sensor panels to turn him around. Our height difference is a marvelous thing in these kinds of situations. Optics now darkened to the same shade as the daylight sky above the Ark meet my own. The look he gives me churns the ember inside my chestplates suffusing my frame with its sudden excess energy._

_Slender, pearl white fingertips slide along my forearms where I have yet to release my grip upon his sensor panels. They leave a trail of fire in their wake as seamlessly they glide up, past a heated grill to lace around my neck chords. A slight tug pulls my helm down to his level and he does his best to meld those pale lip plates to my own._

_Moaning lowly, I reach down and hook my servos under his aft and easily lift his frame and bring it to rest against mine. The flush press of his plating to my own is an irresistible sensation that I sorely missed. Adjusting the firmness of my hold upon him I take command of the situation and grind myself into him barely containing my own strength. The low, near non-existent lighting in the room casts an eerie glow upon everything leaving Prowl bathed in only hints of its glow. His sharp profile is briefly outlined against the dark as I move us across the antechamber all the while re-claiming his mouth in an unbroken kiss._

_We come to an abrupt stop as I practically walk into the cool metal of the bulkhead. The nearby wall will have to do for now as I am loathe to take the time and effort to find where exactly my berth is situated in relation to us. Slender thighs wrap tightly around my waist and half-consciously I meet the action with a hard thrust of my own. My second's face plates screw up as he breaks our locked lip plates to cry out. The movement exposes his throat and my favorite spot upon his body—a small patch of protoform that is occasionally exposed at the upper part of his chest, just above his hood._

_Latching onto the exposed area I suck and lave the soft, pliable metal tasting remnants of the light wax that transferred from his armor. A quiet whimper escapes him and it only serves to ratchet up my desire for him that much more. Our movements steadily become rougher and less coordinated as licks of electricity pass from his flaring field to mine and back again. I barely keep myself from completely crushing his slighter frame to the unbending wall behind him—tempered by the knowledge that it would cause him more pain than pleasure to have his hinges pressed against so heavily._

_Panting echoes hollowly in the stillness of my quarters—his softer in tone, but quickened—a lovely counterpoint to the silence that would otherwise occupy this space. A sharp-heeled pede scratches down the back of my leg as the black and white braces himself more firmly against me. The slight itch of pain/pleasure makes me hiss between bared denta, as well as spurns me on. Within a breem I have brought his systems to a fever pitch as fans and vents work furiously to countermeasure our pleasure. But I know what he needs to fall over the precipice that he is balancing so precariously upon. Trying so desperately to hang onto and retain what little control he has left._

_Well, that can not be allowed._

_Freeing one servo I reach for the brilliant crimson chevron flashing alluring in the darkness and apply firm pressure to the very edge while pulling ever so slightly on the sharp metal._

_The reaction is instantaneous as he arches into me while crying out his release. The overload flashes through his systems and elegantly along his frame while I ride it out and take in as much expended energy as I can stand before succumbing to my own overload as well. Our cries project loudly in the space before dying down and being replaced by the scratch and pop of cooling metal._

_Legs suddenly numb I slide down gracelessly to the floor, Prowl strutless in my lap and possibly offline for the moment. I take a moment to bask in the freedom I feel as the constant pressure and weight that seemed to have been bearing down upon me since our awakening has dissipated. Perhaps being stranded on an alien world is not the worst thing that could have happened to us…_

(_End __Flashback_)

I still can recall the first time I embraced his frame in its new Earthen alt mode several decades ago. Such a short span of time to a Cybertronian, but if nothing else my time on Earth amongst the human race has taught me to appreciate every moment for what it is. Perhaps that is what led me to look deeper into my own spirit and to find an answer to the riddle that is Prowl and my relationship.

When no Datsun is spotted during my quick visual sweep I try not to let my resolve falter at the misgivings that I continue to have. Will I see him again? Will there be time to straighten out what lies in my spark and discover the mystery of his? Pulling myself together in resignation I join the melee and aid my mechs. We must persevere however long it might take to get our tactician and friend back.

* * *

(_Jazz__'__s_ _POV_)

Blue smoke eerily rises from the crackling hole in Ramjet's silver helm. Thankfully Mirage is a good shot coupled with having fast reflexes. We nearly ran over the conehead in our haste to locate our target. I'm already making mistakes leading my team and that has to stop. It won't do Prowl any good if I get us knocked offline and captured trying to rescue him. Frag, he'd probably give me a rash of slag for it—he's had no hesitation doing so in the past, good friends or not. Believe me the mech can give Ratchet a run for his credits on lecturing.

A nod and the blue and white spy simply disintegrates from view and I _feel_ him move ahead of the three of us. I take lead next with Bumblebee following and Hound covering the rear position. The tracker is the most heavily plated out of the lot of us, so he's best suited for his current role at the tail of our miss-matched Ops train. Moving quickly we follow Mirage's rapidly dispersing EM trail and play shadow to the living shadow.

Thankfully, the base by all appearances is deserted. I hope that Prime and his team are givin' the Cons hell. I know I will be once we succeed at goal #1 of our mission. This place is getting leveled as far as I am concerned. I know that Optimus won't like it, but he doesn't have a say in the matter at this point.

The pathway splits into three halls ahead—each dimly lit and looking equally ill-kept—bringing our little Autobot train to a halt. The Cons must have erected this base in a hurry. The halls and doorways can barely be called that. They're more like the jagged holes a human infant would produce when gnawing on something. Seriously, a termite could do better.

Up until this point we've been moving by luck and a vague sense of how Decepticon bases are typically designed. I didn't want to take time that we just don't have to send in a scout to figure out the layout. Definitely a risky move on all of our parts, but then again so is leaving Prowler in the servos of the enemy any longer than we already have. If Prime is the shining beacon guiding our faction, then Prowl is the nuts and bolts keeping us from flying apart. He's got to have made it this far. He just has to.

A thick slab of steel that seems to double as a door blocks our current path any further. That's promising. It's the first closed door that we have encountered throughout our little personal tour of the Con's base. If they felt that they need to thoroughly seal this area we may just be on the right track. I tap Raj on the shoulder plate or at least the empty air where my sensors say his shoulder is and motion behind me. I want him out of the immediate line of fire in case the slag flies. He's our only back up strategy.

Delicately, I alight my left servo against the cold metal surface and jack up the gain on those sensors. I can't see things picture perfect, but I can pick up traces of other helpful hints like heat and energy signatures. There appear to be two that I can detect—one almost directly on the opposite side of this door and another fainter one a little ways down. It's a safe bet that the one closest to us isn't our absent Datsun. The Con's don't like to be in the habit of keeping their prisoners well-fueled.

Silently, one finger is raised to the left signaling my mechs of our enemy. Bumblebee takes position on my right just a little behind my larger form and targets the location that I tight beam him. Working my own brand of magic I overload the circuits of the door's lock and the massive piece of hardware lets out a mighty screech as it forcefully pops open.

I get a brief look at Dirge's surprised face plates before a blaster discharges at takes him out. Bumblebee hefts his smaller handgun with a quick grin and I nod back to him—a grim smile on my own face.

That expression quickly falls as I assess the tight space beyond our busted door and offline conehead. The form slumped against the furthest portion of the holding cell is a bittersweet sight to see.

_Prowl_.

Just by how he is leaning against the wall, I can tell that the mech was not put there under his own power. Even at his worst, my friend always somehow manages to retain his decorum and dignity. I've always been a tad envious of that particular quirk of his.

I nearly fry myself on the cell uplink in my rush to get to him, only marginally managing to not trigger the alarm that is undoubtedly encoded into the holding cell's programming. A hiss from over my left shoulder originating from where Mirage is hidden lets me know that he also happened to catch my little slip up. Shaking out slightly numb digits I calculate my next move before re-tackling the security system.

_Focus_. I need to stay focused.

Fingers that show more dexterity than they certainly look capable of weave the wiring into an intricate pattern—removing some connections while establishing my own. The quiet brush of fibers against each other is soothing white noise to my busy processors as they remain immersed in the delicate work of rewiring the security track. No more than a breem passes as I do my thing. My team is at the ready guarding both my back and Prowl's as I piece together the final reroute.

The brilliant pink glow of the energized bars fades before altogether sputtering and dying out. A lack of a subsequent siren and no broadcast signals lets me know that I at least managed to properly disable the security system in spite of my earlier fumble. Sadly, overriding the circuits cuts the power to the otherwise normally automatic doors leaving us with little choice, but to force them open via brute strength. Hound takes up a spot behind me as we both grip the heavy, steel door and together slide it with all of our might. This place was definitely not meant for long-term occupation. It lacks the refinement and dare I say 'niceties' of your usual Con prison.

Pushing through, I make it the few steps to where Prowl is slumped over and my spark curls painfully at the sight of him. His doorwings are completely gone for some reason, making him seem much smaller than normal…almost delicate, but that may just be because of the missing armor that is giving that illusion. Helm to pede is covered in dents and abrasions while viscous fluids lazily drip out of various junctures and ports on his body forming a disgusting, murky puddle beneath his frame. Some portions of plating have started to grey, but I take some measure of relief in the mere fact that he still mostly has his colors (_as__much__as__I__can__tell_). At least he is still alive.

My servo gingerly cups his cool cheek plate, but it garners no reaction (not that I expected one). I am only partially surprised to find that it is shaking slightly—whether from being upset or being angry I can't really tell. Even when I tilt Prowl's helm up, straightening it out to get a better look at him he does not cycle up. The cadence of his systems simply continues their sluggish, chugging and sometimes irregular plod.

Energon freezes in my lines like polar ice as I get a better look at some misaligned plating along the side of his normally pearl white helm. It looks as though his central processors have been physically accessed and as I work through the fear that worms its way into my core I begin to notice several other areas of his helm where once white plating is charred and disheveled. The signs of trauma to those areas of plating hints at the Smore sinister actions that more than likely have occurred.

Energon boils in my lines from both white-hot fury and fuel-pounding fear. They've _physically_ hacked him. In my mind, there is no question that it was Soundwave himself who did it. I've seen plenty of his victims after the fact and can recognize his handiwork anywhere. The mech is brutal and apathetic in his assault. Uncaring of the state of his subject so long as they are online enough for him to reach his goal. I can imagine the telepath's frustration when his continued mental assaults and hardline manipulations got him nowhere with our tactician. Prowl's better than that, but that would just push Soundwave to more desperate measures.

How long did Prowl have to endure endless attacks upon his memory core and processes?

How well did his specially encoded firewalls fair against such a master infiltrator and hacker? Especially if it is what I suspect and Soundwave resorted to bridging my friend's systems the old-fashioned, analog way. Not many have the patience or knowledge to resort to such methods, but when it happens a mech is stripped of most of his higher functions—sometimes permanently. But I have no time to ponder or worry about that.

Our first priority is retrieving Prowl. Ratchet is waiting with 'Jack just beyond the line of fire along with Skyfire to do whatever is needed to fix and hopefully save our mech. A tap on my shoulder from Bumblebee is enough to warn me that our time is quickly running out. Of course, my chrono says the same, but I am having difficulty keeping an optic on it in my HUD.

Pulling a slender vial out of my subspace I pop the seal before quick upending it into Prowl's back up fuel port. The darker energon is a condensed version of the medical grade that Ratchet uses tailored specifically for this purpose—keeping a bot online.

Not waiting for it to take effect, I quickly wave in Hound. The army green mech is fast to join me in the now cramped cell and bends down to carefully retrieve our second. I notice how particular he is with the placement of his servos being mindful of the missing sensor panels and the raw patches of exposed protoform along his frame. It can't be helped that some wounds are likely to be aggravated. Let's just hope that they don't decide to reopen or else we'll have Prowl bleeding out on us.

Once again Mirage takes lead followed by Bumblebee and Hound. I take up rear guard this time to watch out not only for my team's backplating, but my brother-in-arms' as well.

We almost make it to the exit point with no incident. I say 'almost' because of course we had to run into trouble on the way out. That blasted cat bot, Ravage, blocks our path along with his master. I don't hesitate to fire at Soundwave's faceplates as Bumblebee does the same with Ravage. The Decepticon scout howls in pain as the blaster hits its mark and connects with a hip joint. The massive blue Con is a different story and my shot merely serves to push him back a step or two. Pushing Hound to the side I rush the larger mech in the hopes that it will buy my team some time. Two things happen near simultaneously that I had not counted on in that moment before I crash into Soundwave—Ramjet apparently managed to online again as he looses a shot straight at my unprotected back. Also, an invisible mass intercepts and knocks me flat allowing the energy blast to pass by me and directly into the telepath. Mirage just as quickly materializes and sends another shot at Soundwave for good measure while I play Twister and take down Ramjet preferably for good this time.

The following silence is loud in the narrow space as we wait with tuned audios for anything else. After a few seconds pass without any more interference my spy and I manage to untwist and gather ourselves up while Bee and Hound join us. Both have a relieved smile upon their faceplates. Energy coursing through my frame, I smile wickedly back before tipping my helm towards our now clear exit.

"Shall we?"

* * *

_(Prime__'__s __POV_)

"We have him!" Jazz's voice crackles across a short range comm. tightly broadcast for my audios only.

Black and white weaves a path along the outskirts of the battle—too difficult for me to miss as I am so attuned to that familiar color scheme. Throwing caution to the waning fight waging around me I crane my helm trying to see that monochromatic frame more clearly. I ache for simply a glance of him—some sign that verifies to my own optics that he is alive.

The form draws closer, surrounded by the three other different-hued frames. I can not stop the feeling of disappointment, as well as the constriction my spark makes in its chamber as I recognize the form as being that of Jazz and not of my second. Starting suddenly in the next instant, I realize why I had mistaken him for my tactician. What originally looked like sensor panels from a distance becomes alarming clear to my optics. It's Prowl's form strutlessly hanging over my Third's shoulder plating like some lifeless bag of parts. The tightness in my chestplates increases exponentially and I am moving to intercept their path before I even realize it.

Ironhide's curses echo behind me as he scrambles to follow my hurried flight and—I imagine—watch my back as I can no longer focus enough to do so. Everything has become what they call _tunnel__vision_ to me with the light at the end of said tunnel being my Second.

Even from the distance that I am at something seems off about his form, but higher processes seem to have escaped me at the moment. I am a helpless slave to my spark from helm to sprinting pedes as I push my systems to meet them. He must be alright. It just can't end this way.

* * *

_A/N: Hopefully that was not too difficult to follow with the changing perspectives and flashback. As always, please, please, please let me know what you think. Your comments are a great help to me. There is just one more chapter of this saga left, so consider yourself warned._

_Please tune in next week for the exciting conclusion to this PWP gone wild (or something like that). Bonsai! _


	8. Reconciliation - 1 of 3

**Duty Bound - Part 8 (1 of 3) Reconciliation**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: ProwlxOptimus, et. al

Rating: M

Warnings: Angst, Moody Bots, insinuations of mechxmech relationships

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Transformer, except in miniature, plastic form.

_A/N: Yes, it is finally the beginning of the end. Only one loooong chapter left, which has been diced into more bite-sized parts._

* * *

_(Optimus' POV)_

He's avoiding me.

There is no other reasonable explanation for why my Second has become scarce at all, but our most critical staff meetings. Ratchet did inform both myself and the rest of the command staff in no uncertain terms that Prowl was only to be on light duty until the CMO pronounced him soundly whole—both in frame and processor. That was well over a week ago.

Since then the stoic tactician has become a specter amongst my mechs, haunting his quarters or office, but never venturing into the more public spaces if it can be helped. Logically, I realize that the sudden show of concern and attention for the quiet black and white from just about everyone on board the Ark is probably a bit overwhelming to him. But they can't help it. It took a full week of repairs orchestrated by Ratchet and performed by himself, Wheeljack, Perceptor, First Aid and Red Alert to physically put Prowl back to rights. I had no idea of the true state that he was in and it was terribly unnerving during that time.

The only glimpse that I caught of my Second besides hanging limply over Jazz's shoulder plates as he beat a swift exit with his team from the battlefield was an all too brief glance as I attempted to see him while the tactician was under Ratchet's care. For a moment, I just stood there staring unseeingly at his still form laid out upon the medical berth—numerous tubes and cords attached grotesquely at various junctures and ports. And of course, his beautiful sensor panels noticeably absent from his appearance.

My reaction must have been quite strong because I was barred from entering the medical bay unless I was "purging energon out of every orifice," as decreed by my less-than-hospitable-feeling CMO. The boxy red and white medic's shortness of patience and increased temper did not bode well for Prowl's state.

As much as it pained me to do so, I had to turn away and put my concern and fear for my tactician in a tightly sealed box in the back of my processors. I wanted so badly to be there with him, holding his servo and keeping a vigil by his side. I wanted to be there when he awakened if only to reveal to my amazing Second the depths of which my spark pulsed for him. Instead, my time was split between burying myself in the backlog of work that had accumulated due to Prowl's unexpected absence and sinking into the dark abyss that was beginning to consume me entirely.

Days of hearing nothing from the medical staff wore on me horribly. I imagine that this experience has aged my spark more than the vast majority of events that I have experienced up until this point in my lifespan. The only solace that I could draw from at the time was that nothing was said—there was no word of them losing Prowl. Then I made the mistake of being debriefed by my third-in-command in an attempt to take my mind off of the current state of things. Learning the details from his team's incursion into the enemy's base and subsequent retrieval of the Autobot's Chief Tactical Officer at that moment was probably one of the worst things that I could have done.

From what Jazz described to me with the utmost care (atypical behavior when it came to any report concerning his team) was that the Decepticons had not only physically tortured my SIC, but they had also resorted to attempting to hack into his memory core. When they failed to do so superficially through an interfaced connection, someone (more than likely Soundwave) removed plating from his helm and a few other key access points to physically bridge and break through his processors' encryptions.

Given his continued unconscious state, we had to wait until both Ratchet defragged Prowl's CPU and Red Alert subsequently had some time to check the state of his firewalls, as well as review his memory logs. Only then will we know the extent of the damage that had been done and any subsequent security risks.

I am still waiting to hear from Ratchet about those results—there were a lot of unintelligible sectors with data corrupted beyond recovery. The mystery is whether it was the Decepticons or Prowl who ruined the information. I would not have put it past him to pull something from Jazz's playbook in order to avoid compromising Autobot security. Times like this make me grateful that I denied the request to have system-wide shutdown sequences installed in my higher ranking officers. As much as it pains me to face the truth, I am almost certain that had Prowl had the option he would have taken it for all of our sakes.

Light momentarily floods my office before it is blocked by a frame. For a moment my tired processors see what I have wanted to see and my spark gives a little leap before the figure before me dissolves into someone else.

"Jazz."

"Hey, Prime."

I lack both the energy and the desire for any banter or surface-level pleasantries. Not responding seems to confirm something for my Third as he nods with a hum of affirmation. With an expression more grim than he usually allows to grace his countenance, Jazz completely steps into my office and still he says nothing. Merely contemplates the shelving along the walls and the various items upon them as if he has never stepped foot in here before.

With a casual glance my way he reaches behind himself and suddenly the room is flooded with overhead incandescent lighting. Blinking away the light spots from my optics I frown at the black and white, belatedly realizing that the gesture is lost on him with my battle mask still in place. Still, I get the vaguest impression that he somehow _knows_.

"Prime. You can't keep this up."

Straightening in the metal frame of my chair, I do my best to exude my presence as the Commanding Officer of the Autobot Army.

"What exactly are you refer…"

"Don't man. Just don't."

I wilt at the penetrating look being wielded at my person like a sword—all sharp-edged and cutting straight to my core.

"He's still online. He's still with us."

As he moves closer and all, but looms in my space I can't help, but wonder how he's pulling the feat off. I'm fairly certain that my desk is wider than he can comfortably lean across. And I am stalling.

Looking for somewhere else to focus my attention, I stare blankly at my own two servos and notice a minute tremor going through them. The tremor stops. Then starts again. Stops. Starts. I have no control over my basic functions. It's as though I am watching someone else's hands shake uncontrollably. The distance is almost the same between my processor and spark at the moment.

Slowly, a pair of deep, black servos close over mine, gripping tightly. Daring to raise my gaze, my optics lock with Jazz's exposed ones—over-brimming as they are with emotion. The well of understanding and empathy reflected back from their brilliant sapphire depths nearly undoes me as I sit. I forget sometimes that Jazz, my loyal friend and comrade, is much older than he appears. Older than myself for certain, and perhaps even Ironhide. He has seen and known far more than I can ever hope to and for that trusted insight I can be no less than grateful.

Still, his pain and mine are the same in many ways. The mech that we both care for a great deal has been through untold horrors and we were powerless to stop the chain of events that lead us here. Even now we have no way of knowing if any of the bot that I love still remains in that tattered shell returned to us from the pits. Seeming to somehow know where my processor has drifted, Jazz squeezes my larger servos again.

"He's strong, Prime. You know this. And as stubborn as they come to boot. He wouldn't have survived what he has just to give up in the end. You have to trust him to come back."

The physical being of my spirit bounces around painfully in my chest, still seeing that broken form over Jazz's shoulder.

A firm pulse unexpectedly washes over my spark, freezing my frame as words that I cannot hear and yet understand sooth me. It's the Matrix. It...has to be. I've 'heard' its song before, but never like this. Never when the turmoil I feel has nothing to do with anything, except for my own selfishness. And yet its voice continues to speak and I am left with a feeling of deep peace that settles into every bolt of my frame. My confidence in not only Prowl, but those who have worked so diligently to put him to rights is slowly bolstered and restored. Strangely enough, it's logic that drives the positive response from within me. A thing that my Second would truly appreciate.

"If only he would let us help..."

A soft shake of Jazz's helm stops that line of thought in its tracks. "That won't work, yet. Just like you can't force someone to change if they don't choose it, you can't force them to get help if they don't ask for it."

Sighing, the saboteur releases my warmed servos and gracefully rises from his half-seated position on my desk. Rubbing his chin plate he seems to mull over something. Perhaps it's some additional bit of wisdom. Half-turning from his contemplation of my closed door he gifts me with a few parting thoughts.

"If you really want to help Prowl, you just need to wait, Prime. Wait and be ready when he is. In the end, the mech is going to follow his spark."

My stunned silence is enough confirmation to my Third that his hidden message is received well enough. With a slight tip of his helm the light glass of his visor slides into place and Jazz makes his exit.

I was once told by Alpha Trion himself that my patience was one of my strongest virtues and would help me as Prime. I can't say that I ever imagined it to be tested like this. How long can I wait and continue this separation from my spark?

* * *

_A/N: Poor Prime. I truly have been quite cruel to him lately. Hopefully there is some redemption in the future. Please R&R and let me know what you think!_


	9. Reconciliation - 2 of 3

**Duty Bound - Part 8 (2 of 3) Reconciliation**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: Prowl, Ratchet, Jazz

Rating: M

Warnings: Further Angst, avoidance, mentions of mechxmech relationships, Ratchet-shaped death threats and some ugly flash backs.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers…I can't afford their fuel needs on my salary. -_-;

* * *

_(Prowl's POV)_

Staring listlessly at the scrolling data on the screen in front of me, I do my best to ignore the rolling waves of ire being directed at my being. This is a difficult feat considering where the anger is originating from. Ratchet is not pleased with me, to put it mildly.

I truly am appreciative of the efforts of both him and his medical staff in repairing me. Please do not think me to be anything less than immensely grateful and extremely humbled by their care and consideration. However, when it comes to matters of the processor and spark that are not physical, per se, I have absolutely no desire to have a second or third party insinuating their presence. Admirably, Ratchet believes that his job is far from complete until a patient is whole in both frame and faculties. The trouble is that he really has no control over the latter and nor should he…but nor do I at the moment for that matter.

It is painful to even admit this to myself, let alone perceive sharing such information with someone else. There is a…considerable amount of data that I need to work through, sort and archive from my captivity, and even before that event. Regardless of how overwhelmed I feel, there are some personal issues that divulging would harm me in more ways than one. Having to deal with the consequences of such a sharing of information is, again, something that I would like to avoid. Some might label me a coward and so be it, but I am introverted by nature and deal with things best when I am the one in control.

I especially need to be that _one_ right now. Being stripped of all control is an experience I fervently hope to not experience for a long time, if ever again. _That_ I think, wore at me more than anything my captors did during my incarceration. The thing about torture is that it truly is a situation where you can see the true depths to which an individual is willing to sink. One can tell the true depravity of the torturer through what they are willing to do to incite fear in their victim. Give a mech complete control of another mech and see what happens. Tell them there is no consequence to their actions—that they are free to act as if they were Primus themselves. It is an overdone adage, but the words are no less true—absolute power corrupts absolutely.

In the beginning, they did not even try to get information out of me. No, then it was about a war's worth of anger and frustration that had been pent up, just waiting for the proper outlet. I was a convenient symbol of everything they stood against. There were moments that I had brief respite from the difficulty of having my frame systematically taken apart. Sometimes I would try to imagine my own mechs being in this situation, except reversed. If they were given this opportunity would they do the same to say…Starscream or Soundwave? Were they capable of the same cruelty towards the Decepticons as they obviously are towards us? I truly would like to believe otherwise. Even my most lawless mechs (_the twins_) still have some odd moral standard of conduct that they keep themselves to. I can't imagine even Sunstreaker slowly dissecting armor from protoform and laughing while doing so…

{_Dark servos grip down hard onto an arm denting the plating hard enough to pinch wires and tubing beneath. A voice laughing sickly as it slowly peels the armor back in another area, entire clusters of sensors relays pulled taut as they follow.}_

Optics flaring, I barely catch myself from gasping. The medical sensors still monitoring my form start to register the rise in stress levels that my body is projecting. Catching the different cadence to the systems, Ratchet turns from what he is doing to glance over. Taking a deep draught of air, I attempt to calm my processes.

_{Stretched between connecting points of armor and the living metal flesh they are embedded in. Sparks flickering and error messages running rampant as the wiring reacts to the imminent separation warning not only with words, but with pain.}_

I fight with myself to once again attempt to regain control. I am in the Ark. I am no longer in that place. There is no threat. There is no pain. Fear is my only enemy.

_{Crying out hoarsely through a vocalizer worn down by screams as several loud twangs abruptly sound and the two parts of Cybertronian physiology are rent apart leaving nothing, but fire burning through in the wake of their rupture. My sight has been taken from me. I no longer can tell how much time has passed during my captivity. All I am aware of is an unending ache that I cannot escape.}_

I barely keep from crying out again as reality firmly reasserts itself and I come to find Ratchet's stern faceplates uncomfortably close to my own. Strangely enough, his does not say anything. Simply waits for me to gain control of my processes and acknowledge him. Seeing something that must tell him so, the medic simply nods before turning to the read outs his medical equipment is spitting out about me.

Almost too nonchalant in tone, he interrupts the silence, "So, how long have you been having memory dumps?"

My initial reaction is to deny, even with the proof of it no more than a minute past. But alas, there is no fooling the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer—not even on a good day—and I am most definitely not at my most optimum to challenge him.

"…since shortly after I returned to duty."

"And you have not thought of telling me that before now, why?"

Turning my helm at his sour tone, I regard the medic and tell him with complete honesty, "Because there is nothing that you can do about them, Ratchet. You know this. They will eventually lessen in intensity and frequency. I will just have to manage them as best I can."

His frown deepens, but he seems to actually consider what I have said. My logic is not infallible, but it is what I truly believe. He shakes his helm in frustration, more than likely at my reasoning.

"That may be true, Prowl, but this is not something anyone should deal with on their own. If you won't speak to me, will you at least consider talking to one of the other officers?"

"I will consider it, Ratchet, but I cannot promise you anything."

"Hmph. Of course you would say that. I should prescribe you to mandatory counseling, you know? I will, in fact if I do not see your health improving soon."

Frowning at the last part of his statement, I turn to look at the machine, attempting to decipher the problem that Ratchet is referring to.

"Oh, you won't see anything concrete in those readings, but you're not a medic on this vessel, are you? Your healing has plateaued. I can also tell that you're not getting adequate recharge, which doesn't help things. Given that it's only been a week since I put your sorry frame back together, that is not acceptable. Do you want to end up on an extended stay here?"

Wincing, I shake my helm in the negative. I have no desire to suffer an irate Ratchet's presence for an undetermined amount of time. "Recharge…is a fickle thing of late."

"Hmm. More memory dumps?"

Nodding, he frowns, but at least rewards me for my honesty. I watch him walk over to a cabinet and unlock its door with his ID chip. He fiddles with something in a drawer for a moment before closing the doors once again and returning to my berth. Holding a small container to me expectantly, I hesitate to take it.

"Oh, for frag's sake." Grabbing my servo, he slaps the taupe-lidded cylinder into my palm. "It's a mild sedative to help you recharge. You only need one a night and there are enough there for a week. If it's still a problem then, you're being taken off duty completely until Smokescreen clears you. Do I make myself clear?"

Smiling slightly in gratitude, I nod my thanks before slipping off of the medical berth and heading towards the exit. Ratchet's cranky vocals stop me at the door.

"I mean it, Prowl. Get yourself some help, or I am getting some for you."

"I understand, Ratchet. Thank you for your hospitality. It was as refreshing as always."

Stepping through the sliding, metal doors I hear something thud dully against them as they close. Rolling my optics, I subspace the unexpected gift from our cantankerous medic and head back to the welcome respite of my office.

Rounding the last corner to my destination, the dark frame leaning ever so casually next to it causes me to frown. Not the one to avoid confrontation, I brush past the lounging saboteur and key into my section of Admin. Undaunted, Jazz follows and I can hear him making himself at home in one of my reception chairs.

In no hurry to have a conversation with this particular mech, only slightly higher on my list of mechs to avoid than…Prime, I busy myself with logging into my console and getting several routine tactical programs initiated.

"Prowl, ya can't keep doing this."

"And what is it that I am not supposed to be doing?"

"Avoiding bots and ignoring what happened. Don't do this to me, and especially not to Prime."

"I believe what I can and cannot do is completely my choice, Jazz. If you have no constructive reason to be here, I suggest you leave so that I can catch up on my work."

It is not a complete lie. I do have a large backlog of work that I need to go through from my unexpected absence. I know the other officers tried to take care of the workload, but there is a reason that I do this job and not them—not that I would tell any of them that I have been redoing what I am sure took some effort on their part.

"I have plenty of 'constructive reason' to be here, and it's all sitting in the stubborn aft chassis of my best friend."

"I appreciate your concern, Jazz, but as you can see I am handling things just fine, thank you."

"Oh yeah. _Just fine_. When's the last time you spoke with Prime, eh? Have you said even five words to him since you've been back?"

Frowning at a very blatant grammatical error in a report from Ironhide, I distractedly answer the fuming Ops mech across from me. "Of course I have. We had a meeting with the Joint Chiefs just yesterday."

A loud slam has me instantly snapping my attention away from my report and right at the dark servo resting deceptively on the edge of my desk.

{_A cacophony of screeching noises and pounding, breaking metal assaults my audios relentlessly. Sound is their latest weapon in trying to break me._}

"…and are ya listening to a damn word I am sayin', Prowl?" Jazz's voice breaks me out of the place my memories had temporarily taken me to.

"I'm sorry…what…?"

"I. Said. You need help, Prowler. If you won't talk to me, then at least talk to Prime. Frag, you don't even have to tell him anything about what went down. The mech's tearing himself apart worrying about you."

I can't help the dark frown of what my friend is insinuating. He can't possibly know, can he? "I am sorry to hear that about Prime, but I fail to understand how it is my concern and responsibility to inform him of 'how I am doing.' He has access to Ratchet's medical reports the same as you and can simulate what happened to me just as well." That last sentence comes out a little more emotionally charge and bitter sounding than I intended.

_SLAM. _"Frag it all, Prowl. You know damn well what I am talking about, so don't be lying to me."

My digits twitch and I feel that same muffled darkness encroach along the edges of my vision. I need to get rid of Jazz, _and_ _now_!

"There is nothing to discuss, Jazz. I suggest you leave…"

As I get up and turn to unlock the door and force my stubborn subordinate out, I just make out a dark form and equally dark servo reaching towards me from the corner of my vision and the world suddenly fades.

{_A dark servo pins my stasis-cuffed wrists above my helm. The mech is easily a helm and shoulder plates taller than me. The air around us is dank and putrid from both lack of circulation and the stagnant energon that decorates the floor. The press of cold stone against my bare and broken wing struts is excruciatingly painful and it takes all I have to not cry out at the nauseating sensation._

_A dark chuckle rings in my audios, telling me my latest torturer has noticed my discomfort. Noticed and is relishing it._

_The cuffs pull on my energy, leaving me weak as a sparkling and as easy to manipulate as a rag doll. I can't stop his free servo from touching me—exploring my frame as he has no right to do. There is only one that I have ever allowed to dominate me and it is of my own free will and choosing. What this one does disgusts me and the lack of control starts to gnaw at my processors as nothing else has yet. Fear and panic are attempting to take over my mind and without my battle computer online the rush of emotion is all, but impossible to hold off._

_He reaches lower, removing armor plating as if it is aluminum as he goes. I have to stop this. I have to stop him.}_

For a moment, all that I register is a faint buzzing sound and warmth lazily crawling down my servo—covering it in its heat. There shouldn't be heat. It was so cold and dank only microseconds ago.

Slowly, the mildly irritating background noises grow in strength, like some invisible volume knob is being turned up. Then the muddle of tones clear and become words. Words become sentences—sentences that are both pleading in nature and climbing in pitch and intensity. Looking down at my warmed servo it becomes quickly and nauseatingly apparent as to why.

A jet black servo is clutched tightly in my outstretched fist, partially crushed and twisted almost a complete 180 degrees to the point of being nearly unrecognizable. Tension wires, thin strands of silver filament and thick cabling have all been ruptured and disfigured. Between the gaps of plating, brilliant pink energon leaks, the viscous fluid liberally coating my servo from where it lies underneath. Fear grips me hard and my breath all, but leaves me at the grimacing face that is calling my name repeatedly. Trying to get my attention for how long?

_Oh, Primus. Jazz. What…?_

"What…" I trail off and immediately release the mangled appendage as if the very liquid is corrosive. Jazz immediately draws his ruined servo into himself from where he is kneeling on the floor. When did he get there? How could this have happened? The last thing I remember was speaking to him about…about _something_.

Shakily, I raise my remaining clean servo to my chevron as my processor aches sharply at the myriad of thoughts begging for its attention. I am all too familiar with the after effects of a processor glitch. The residual sting from this latest one compounds on top of a newly rising one, threatening to cause me to glitch up again.

"It's okay, Prowl. It's okay." Jazz's voice is barely more than a harsh whisper. How long was he calling to me? Crying out in pain, but unwilling to harm me for the sake of himself?

Shocked at the raspy quality to the saboteur's vocals I can do no more than stare in horror at him. What have I done? What can I do? How tragically amusing that now, of all times, the very thing that everyone seems intent to speak to me about—to warn me about—happens and to him. There is some horrible punch line to this, but I haven't the faintest inkling nor the desire to think of what it is.

The downed black and white notices that he finally has gotten through to me and amidst his frame's shaking in reaction to his own physical shock he manages to stand and take the few steps separating us. Instinctively I am already backing up—trying my best to distance myself from him. The last thing I want is to trigger another episode. One is unforgivable. I do not wish to contemplate two. Optics wide, my breath comes in pants now. Everything is spinning out of control. I am losing control.

Seeing my blatant fear, Jazz rises and does his best to sooth me. "Don't worry about it, man. Everything will be okay. This kind of stuff happens. It's not your fault."

This is not something that can be played down or thrown to the wayside and he knows it as well as I do. Shaking my head in denial of his words, I continue to back away from his pleading, pained form. I need…something. I need to get out of here. I cannot stand to stay a moment more. The guilt of what I have done—of what I am apparently capable of doing—sends fear straight like an arrow to the core of my very spark. In all of the times that I have glitched I have never harmed another. To have intentionally hurt my dearest friend like this…it is unforgivable.

But I can fix this. I _have_ to fix this.

With only minute tremors to my body now, I queue up a comm. call with the med bay.

_Wheeljack is on duty. He doesn't know what has been going on with me. Only Ratchet does. This will work._

Instantly, he responds to my ping. "Wheeljack here. What's up, Prowl?"

Taking a deep breath I do my best to project a steady voice over the transmitter. "Wheeljack, I need you to come down to my office immediately. Jazz is in need of medical assistance."

"What? What happened, Prowl?"

I quickly cut the engineer off. "I do not have time to explain. Please come and retrieve him immediately. Prowl out."

Refocusing on Jazz I note the deep frown forming on his face in response to my comm. I will not argue with him on this. I lack the will power to do it. Even in pain, the saboteur has that stubborn slant to his visor that tells me all that I need to know. The full effect is lost both by the way he is tensed over his hand and the alarmingly growing puddle beneath our pedes of his energon. In a distant part of my processors I deduce that I must have severed a main line in his wrist joint.

Shaking my helm in dismay and disjointed fear I act the coward. Unable to stand the sight of what I have done any longer I complete the last few steps backwards triggering my door. The near silent _whoosh_ of it is all of the confirmation that I need to escape into the halls and away from here. Jazz's sorrowful face plates the last image burned into my memory banks as I flee.

* * *

_A/N: And now I've upset Prowl again, with an injured Jazz to boot. Meep. A certain red frontliner is not going to be happy camper. One more part left, so please hang in there!_

_As always, please R&R and let me know how my writing is working for you._


	10. Reconciliation - 3 of 3

**Duty Bound - Part 8 (3 of 3) Reconciliation**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: Prowl, Optimus, Jazz, Ratchet, Sideswipe, Bluestreak

Rating: M

Warnings: Sorrowful, depressed, confused bots just trying to make sense of their world and an ending.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. I think they would rebel under the reign of my plot bunnies.

_A/N: Holy slag! I can't believe this is the last chapter of this story. It seriously was a very long time coming. Hopefully this ending is satisfying to any and all who read this._

* * *

(_Jazz POV_)

Morosely, I bore a hole through the eternally orange ceiling plates doing my best to not succumb to the utter horror that is _boredom_. The Hatchet left me here on my comfy little berth no more than a couple of joors ago with the firm order to not move a servo (_Oh hardy, har, har, doc!_) until he says so to give my newly mended hand and wrist joint time to adjust. Being in the mood that I am in I might have given him the finger from said busted servo, but I have better things to do right now than poke a badger with a spoon.

I don't know where he headed in such a froth, but I can simulate a couple of scenarios. Hey, just because I'm not assigned the role of head tactician doesn't mean that I don't know how to speculate possibilities and probabilities. Right now my credits are on Ratchet visiting Prime—something that I was really hoping to avoid happening just yet.

Between the three of us, it's no secret that Prowl's in a bad way (mentally and emotionally speaking). I was just holding out the hope that he would let one of us in before something bad came of it. Now I'm no masochist, but all the same I'm glad that it happened to me. I can at least understand and accept what's going on. I've been in the driver's seat more than once dealing with this exact thing and sometimes it just ain't pretty. It's the sad, gritty truth about war.

Of course, this means that I need to be in full damage control mode to stop this from getting any worse than it already is. Lucky me I am under house arrest in the med bay. Unlucky for Prowl I have other means of getting my way. Speaking of which…

From my prostrate position I turn my helm and give my most award-winning smile to the two mechs warily peaking around the open med bay doors. Waving them over with my undamaged servo both Sides and Blue do a quick two step to where I'm at. From the corner of my optic I see Jack momentarily stop fiddling with whatever he's fiddling with to regard my two visitors. They both tense, but Wheeljack is no where near as strict about visitation rules in the med bay as some individuals, so he just flashes his audials light blue in greeting before once again becoming engrossed in his work.

Sideswipe gives an exaggerated swipe of his forehelm before flashing a charming grin my way. I flash one back, although it is obviously lost on him the moment his sharp optics focus in on the shiny new metal of my servo. Frowning darkly, for a moment he seems to be his brother and I wonder if maybe I should have waited until after I was out of the med bay to call him in. I should have guessed that this would not have slipped by his notice. Bright blue optics lock on mine as if my visor isn't even there and look expectantly at me.

"What the frag happened to your hand?"

_Well, that was subtle._

Bluestreak's confused expression quickly clouds over with worry as he too finally notices the newly reconstructed appendage.

"It's nothin' Sides. I need you to two to take care of something for me, okay?"

Always eager to help, Blue's already nodding, but the red devil is not placated.

"Yeah, sure we will—once we find out why the frell you're in the med bay."

Frowning slightly, my tone changes to the one that I rarely use with this particular mech—that of an officer. "You need to drop it Sides. There are more important things going on here."

Still upset, I'm surprised when he easily relents with a quick, sharp nod—both an agreement and a promise that the subject may have been dropped, but it's not forgotten. Ah well, I can work with that.

"Thanks. Look, I need you two to find Prowl. I'm under house arrest courtesy of Ratchet, so I can't be out there playing Hide and Go Seek. He's pretty upset, although I don't need to tell you guys that he'll probably deny it outright. You don't need to corner him, just convince him to hang around the Ark and chill for a bit. That means no intentionally riling him up, k?"

Bluestreak smiles brilliantly, obviously eager to do whatever he can to help his mentor. Sideswipe…yeah. He's still not convinced about leaving me as is to go on a wild goose chase for his nemesis, I imagine.

Sighing, I gesture Sides closer and wait until his lanky form has leaned over and is no more than a hand's breath away. He raises an optic ridge expectantly and I have no choice, but to give him the short short version of the truth. What can I say? For whatever reason the mech has protective tendencies towards me (sweet) that are borderline possessive (not sweet).

"Sides…it's like this. You know better than most the heavy slag that Prowler is working through. Yeah, he's not dealing well and I pushed him more than I should have. It was an _accident_ and nothing more, and you guys need to bring him back. I can't. You can."

A strong frown is pulling down the corners of my mech's lipplates, but his optics tell another story. Empathy. A chink in his proverbial protective armor. The bot cares about Prowl more than he'll ever admit and unfortunately I am prepared to use that to my full advantage in this situation.

"Please. I need you to do this for me…and for Prowl. He's in no shape to be out by himself right now. He needs us."

The frown withdraws and a slight pout replaces it, but I can tell I've won the argument.

"Alright. We'll find him, but you'd better still be here when I get back."

Smiling slightly, I close the short distance between our faceplates and kiss that cute pout away along with any lingering worries he might have. After a few minutes, I hear exhaust being cleared from someone's intakes and reluctantly break with him.

A dazzling smile is my reward as Sides straightens up. Glancing over at a blushing Bluestreak, the Lamborghini throws a wicked smirk my way before guiding the younger mech out of the med bay.

Tension releasing from my frame, I ease back down onto the berth and resume my in-depth analysis of the ceiling.

From the corner of my optic, Wheeljack shakes his helm in amusement, but declines to comment.

* * *

(_Prowl POV_)

Rain pelts relentlessly against my hood as I continue to put distance between myself and the Ark. The staccato has a soothing quality to it and I find myself slowing my reckless pace in spite of my swirling emotions.

I had no destination in mind when I left the Ark. Just a driving need to, well…**drive**. It is difficult for me to rationalize how regardless of our inorganic nature we still have ingrained behaviors that function on an instinctual level. It plainly makes no sense, but I have no desire to lock up my processors over the absurdity of it. Instead, I have given into the urge and am likewise immediately gratified by the behavior. The behavior is subsequently positively reinforced, thus securing its continued existence.

And here I am thinking of instinct as some sentient individual. I truly am a mess.

Guilt assaults me once again and my insides churn at the replayed memory file of what occurred in my office. Loss of control is the worst thing that can happen to me, both physically and mentally. I would that I could take back what has happened, however illogical that may be. Rationally, I know that my reaction is driven by the fear of losing that easy trust and acceptance that has developed between Jazz and I over our many vorns together. Fear of that, as well as the possible waterfall of issues that might cascade from it as a result. I might lose my position, but worse yet is the respect that might be lost from those whose opinions matter the most to me.

I miss my Prime. That is what hurts the most.

The isolation and avoidance is of my choosing, but whereas I held firm convictions as to why I was avoiding him before, I now cannot seem to recall why exactly I thought it was a good idea. I am not the type to openly emote as some can do so freely. How I have dealt with emotion, both the bad and the good, is by rationally discussing my thought processes with an open audio. Unsurprisingly, more often than not that set of audios has come to be Optimus. We are so similar in how we process that in him I have found a level of understanding that I have not found in another. However, whereas I am not overly direct with my feelings he has always been a well of empathy and compassion. The depth of his emotions I have come to both depend upon and cherish deeply. The void that they typically fill is all too apparent to me now.

Why would I intentionally cause this? What is there to gain for either of us?

Part of the trouble with repressing my emotions is that when they occur strongly I do not have the knowledge or capacity to handle them. I avoid. And I run. It is neither noble nor brave. Perhaps that is another reason I have continued to sidestep his attempts to see me. I am afraid of what I will see in his optics when he realizes what a coward I have become.

Finally, I have to pull off and stop for a moment. My engine is running hot from the fast sprint it has been hard-pressed to endure and the constant redlining has reached the point where it is impossible to ignore it. I cannot seem to catch my breath or steady the pulse of my spark. Transforming into root mode, for a moment I stare at the dark sky above. Clouds the color of cool steel fill the wide open space, blocking even the faint glow of the Earth's singular moon. Strangely, such a simple meteorological phenomenon leaves me with an overwhelming sense of loss.

What is wrong with me?

I have been forced to endure torture before. Granted, it has never gone so far, but still... I feel dismantled down to the core. Open and empty for all to see. I know this is not truly the case, but it is difficult to rectify in my processors. I survived. I lived. My friends and comrades came for me at great risk to themselves and succeeded where they could have just as easily failed.

The difficulty is in getting my spark and my processors to match in their conclusion upon what the next course of action should be. That is far easier said than done. All I wish is to be content in my choice, whatever that is.

I loathe uncertainty. Its mere presence implicates that there is a certain level of randomness and volatility at play. In a tactician's line of work, such dangerous distractions are not appreciated.

Water sluices down my faceplates in tiny streams imitating tears that I am unable to shed. I cannot continue on like this. I feel as though something inside of my very spark is about to burst. Whether or not it will become a black hole or a supernova still remains to be seen. This was never what I intended when I first became a counselor and consort (of sorts) to Optimus. How could I have anticipated this happening when for so long I had been unable to find a match for my spark? How could I have?

My battle computer is happy to chime in at that moment with an 89% chance of compatibility based upon our known work styles, ethical views, and the history of our interactions. How ironic, I strive to reach such a percentile of success when planning for a mission, yet more often than not cannot. Perhaps my processors are of the same mind as my spark? It would be much simpler if that was the case, and yet I still hesitate.

Glancing in the direction of the Ark, I can almost imagine that I am seeing the warm glow of its entrance through the gloom even from this far away. Can I make this choice and more importantly, should I?

Frowning, my spark quells in anxiety at what I must do. What I have no choice, but to do. Forgive me, Optimus.

* * *

(_Jazz POV_)

Somehow, I'm not surprised to see Prime enter the med bay a few hours after Sides and Blue left it.

The mech still looks as though he is carrying the weight of the universe on top of his shoulder plates. I'm sure this little incident does not ease that burden in the slightest bit as I imagine that Ratchet was sure to tell him in wonderful, lurid detail what happened. I can't fault Ratch' for being upset and doing his job, but I still wish **I** had told him. Kind, gentle words aren't exactly the old doc's strong suit. Nothing I can do about it now—again, just damage control from me.

From my still prone position I watch our CO and CMO speaking in quiet tones. Ratchet's are terse while the Prime's are subdued. I wish Prowler was here to see this. See the kind of effect he has on everyone. It warms my spark knowing how much the crew cares about him and doubly so now that I can clearly see the depth at which Optimus does. If only the stubborn fragger would actually believe me and open his optics wide and accept what's going on right in front of his nasal bridge.

Nothing for it now. Hopefully my two 'scouts' are close to finding Prowl, if they haven't already.

Ratchet's office door slides open allowing the exit of Optimus and the ol' doc. Neither of them looks particularly pleased. If I didn't know the reason behind their expressions, I'd swear they'd tasted some rancid motor oil. Prime keys into me observing them and changes his course to my laid up form. I don't even get the chance to catch where the Hatchet disappears to.

"Jazz."

"Hey boss bot."

"How are you feeling?"

"You mean this?" I raise my newly mended servo. "Honestly, this is nothing compared to some of the slag I've been in here for. If you mean about Prowl, I'm just peachy. It's him that I'm worried about."

Even with his battle mask up, it's apparent the Prime's expression is grim.

"I see. Do you have any idea as to where he has gone?"

Frowning, I shake my helm. Arms crossed and processor going a mega mile a microsecond, I can't put together a place that he'd go to that would make sense at the moment. I've been trying to pull a list of possible hiding spots for Prowl, but honestly I don't think he'll be in any of them. Those are the spots he vacates to when he consciously just doesn't want to be bothered. I don't think that is the case this time.

"I sent out a couple of trusted bots to look for him and be discreet about it, so here's hoping."

No sooner do I say that, than the doors to the med bay open and the aforementioned bots enter.

"Speaking of which…how'd you guys do?" My smile fades quickly as I note that both mechs are looking as morose as can be.

"Ah, slag. No luck?"

Sideswipe revs his engine grumpily. "No. Not a nanobit of him. That glitch is harder to find than you."

A deeper, stronger engine rumbles to my side and both Sides and Blue jump. I think they somehow missed the ever impressive (and massive) form of our CO. I'm sure he isn't pleased about their report, but I bet that grumble had more to do with Sides' teensy bit of name calling.

Optics blazing, Prime turns to me. "That is it. We need to put together a search for him. He's gone off of Teletran-1's grid. For all we know he could be back in Decepticon hands."

He gets only two steps away from my berth before I lunge after him. Of course, I completely forget about the drip lines that are still attached to me, so about the minute I wrap my arms around his midsection the lines pull, I yelp, and we both go down in a heap. Eh. At least I stopped him.

Cherry red plating glints out of the corner of my visor and Sides is at my side in an instant, detaching me from both the Prime and the mangled remains of my fluid drips. Oh, Ratchet is going to kill me. Before imminent death can burst through the doors from wherever he corralled himself, I have to speak quickly to Optimus.

"Look Prime, ya can't do that to him. Yeah, he's been through a lot, but he's still Prowler and he's not going to do anything too risky. He probably just needs some time to work through things. There's a lot of data for him to sort. If you call attention to his disappearing act at this point it's going to cause more harm than good."

Even though I can see that protective urge flare up again and the desire to do all things irrational and extreme, I can also see Optimus' reluctant agreement. He knows Prowl, perhaps better than me now. He knows I'm right.

A cacophony of curses accompanies Ratchet's return to his domain and immediately he zeroes in on me. I feel like some six foot high sparkling caught with his hand in the energon goody dispenser. Before the doc can start his lecture, I pull Prime in close enough that what I say is for his audios only.

"Prowl will return to you. Have faith in him."

The deeper meaning to my words is not lost on Optimus, if his shocked expression is anything to go by. I regard him solemnly in that moment. I'm giving him the care of someone very precious to me. He'd best understand that.

As the Hatchet smacks me upside the helm and all, but shoves me back onto the berth (getting in a good whack to Sideswipe for good measure) I give Optimus my most winning smile. There's something far deeper that runs between those two. I need to follow my own advice and have faith that they'll be okay.

* * *

(_Optimus POV_)

Jazz's last words echo over and over in my helm.

He will return to me.

He will.

I try to believe those words. Try to remember all of the time that we have spent together and trust that it will be enough. Doing any work, however menial is a lost cause. All I can process is my fear and worry for him.

The day has gotten late. Most shifts have ended and the skeleton crew is online. There is no use putting it off any longer. I need to retire for the night, no matter how much I do not think I can manage it. On a chance in a thousand, I swing by my Second's office hoping beyond hope that he is sitting there as he so often does. Simply lost track of the time and working late.

My first chimes and knocks to the door garner no response. After a few minutes of silence, I finally give in to reality and return to my cold, dark quarters…alone.

As I tiredly shuffle into the room and key on the lights to one of its lowest settings, I make a startling discovery. There, lying in the center of my berth curled up in recharge is Prowl. The tactician looks incredibly vulnerable and yet comfortable and secure. I can't help, but wonder if he has been here the entire time.

A small hope sparks inside me. He willingly came to my room, so at least he seems to no longer be avoiding me. Cautiously, I sit on the edge of my berth and simply gaze upon his wonderful, living frame. I still feel incredibly relieved that Prowl was returned to us alive. It has been such a short time that we have been apart and yet the chasm it has left in my life is only too apparent now. It is strangely satisfying being able to now recognize how much my Second is a part of my spark. The fear that the only reason that my ever dutiful tactician has remained with me is because I am Prime still lingers like a dark miasma slinking through my lines.

As I continue my morose thoughts, the slight white and black form before me onlines. He does not move. Does not even flinch at my presence, as if he knew I would be here when he awakened. For a moment, we simply stare at each other. No thoughts or unspoken words are exchanged in our gazes. I can't read him.

In the end, my impatience and lack of energy wins out and I speak first.

"Why are you here, Prowl?"

The words sound as heavy as the thick lead they felt like leaving my vocalizer. I am not accusing him of anything, but I am weary of this strange distance between us. I would give anything that I have at this moment, even my very spark to be able to simply reach out and hold him. Forget all of the other things that I do not know or understand.

Time is still as my tactician regards me. His optics are a deep well of calm and there is a contentedness to his look that I have not seen for many vorns. The expression on his faceplates holds all of the decisiveness and certainty that I know him for, though what he has decided I am hesitant to even put forth a guess. I can only hope that he will give me the chance to keep him from leaving.

A soft sigh exhales from slightly parted silver lipplates and he bows his helm in thought. My spark pulses loudly in the room's stillness and I am almost completely positive that Prowl can hear it.

"It just…felt safe here. My processor—it's finally quiet for me in this room."

Glancing up, in the wane light his expression seems woefully younger than his many. "Why does this place bring me peace?"

Sighing myself, I attempt to rub the tension from my neck cables. "Why are you here, Prowl?" I ask again. Confusion briefly mars his features and he is about to respond, but I interrupt.

"No, not here in my room. Why are you here _with me_? I have to know. I…I need to know."

Seeing his lip plates draw tightly together, I continue on before my courage leaves me. "I have always found myself wondering, and lately more often than not. Why do you stay with me, Prowl? Do you want this? Is this out of some duty you feel towards me? Perhaps I have just been fooling myself, but I know that at least for me I want this. I want you, Prowl. Need you as if you are a part of my own spark."

"But if this is not how you feel,…if this is truly just duty to you, I cannot bear for us to continue like this, Prowl. I came so close to losing you last week and the very thought of it nearly broke me. Even now I still feel as though I have lost you."

Sitting up carefully, Prowl holds his servos out to me not speaking a word in response. For a moment, I find myself hesitating. I wonder if he is simply going to distract me from my line of questioning as he has done so in the past when some thought has plagued me. Although, if he had wanted to do so, he would not have allowed me to speak, I'm sure.

Coming to that conclusion, I muster the tattered remnants of my courage and clasp the two smaller servos, held patiently aloft to me and allow them to guide me onto the berth. In the end, we lie facing each other, Prowl still carefully clasping a servo he did not relinquish. His free servo comes up to join its mate in cupping my hand in between the two. The hold is both gentle and firm, as though he is holding something precious. The look I receive nearly rends my spark in two. It is as open and warm as I have ever witnessed from him.

With that soft look, he finally speaks to me. His tone is as low as ever, but full of emotion.

"It was duty that drove me to call you my Prime. Duty that led me to follow you. And it was duty that bade me to comfort you. It has been an honor to be able to serve my Prime in all ways."

It was the answer that I was both most expecting and dreading. A part of me already mourns the loss of something I'm now uncertain that I ever had, however brief.

A pearl white servo lifts my helm from where it fell. That gentle smile is still there. It's the one he has always gifted me with and no other. I don't understand this.

"It was…difficult being captured this last time. More so than I have ever had the displeasure to experience. I… I almost broke so many times, but something stopped me from it. Helped me to hold fast and not lose hope. Do you know where my strength came from?"

I can barely vent as I pay rapt attention to his words. Such an admittance is completely unexpected. All I can do is shake my helm and plead with my optics for him to continue.

"It was the thought of you that kept my resolve firm. More than anything, you kept my spark pulsing. All I wanted to do was see my Prime once again and to be at your side. Not as your Second or you head tactician, but as your lover and love. My love for you carried me through what has been the worst time of my life."

For a moment he stops and I am left speechless in awe.

"It stopped being duty that drew me to you a long time ago. It was my own selfishness that kept me from telling you the simple truth. I was afraid. I did not want to lose what we have. I could not lose you."

Sparking flaring hot in my chassis, I can't keep from kissing him like there is no world beyond these doors. Cradling his helm between my large servos, I look into those silver-blue optics and get all of the confirmation I could need. Reverently I bring our helms together and feel the bright pulse of energy that the simple contact exchanges.

"I love you, Prowl." So few words that cannot even come close to saying how I feel.

"And I love you, Optimus." His words are softly spoken, but there is a satisfaction in how he says them.

Before he can say more, a rather large yawn erupts out of my tactician and I am pleased to see a faint blush on his plating. I am glad that in spite of everything, he has not entirely changed. I can only imagine how exhausted he must be, though. With my own gentle smile I fully wrap my arms around his slender frame and press it closely to my own. There is no protest in the soft slide of his chassis against mine.

* * *

_A/N: And…all done! I know this probably not the nice steamy ending that might have been expected/hoped for, but somehow it just felt appropriate given how these two and this story started._

_Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, favorited and reviewed. I don't normally do this, but in particular I want to thank Thalanee for cajoling and encouraging me to keep on this story and giving this grateful writer warm fuzzies. _

_Thanks again, and ciao for nao! ^_^_


End file.
